


Pretty When You Cry

by kaiein



Series: Things That Can't Be Seen [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Bottom Sam Winchester, Branding, Choking, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Edging, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face-Fucking, Gangbang, Group Sex, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Incest, Insecure Sam Winchester, Leather, Love Letters, M/M, Masochism, Mild Gore, Multi, Oral Sex, Ownership, Pegging, Piercings, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Prophetic Dreams, Public Scene, Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Scent Kink (though not the usual), Sex Club, Sex Magic, Sharing, Sharing a Bed, Somewhat Under-negotiated Kink, Spells & Enchantments, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Sub Sam Winchester, Submission, Suspension, Top Sam (briefly), Unrequited Lust, Vaginal Sex, What Exactly is a Healthy Relationship Anyways?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 93,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiein/pseuds/kaiein
Summary: Sam's never had a best friend like Brady—well, he's never really had a best friend at all (Dean doesn't count...at least, not anymore, it seems). And Brady's pretty amazing; the perfect friend, really. But why can't Sam stop wanting more? And how hard will Brady freak out when he finds out what it is that Sam really wants?But, most of all, what will Sam do when he finally gets it?
Relationships: Demon Possessing Tyson Brady/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Real Tyson Brady/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s), past Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Series: Things That Can't Be Seen [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821571
Comments: 91
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be short fill...
> 
> Tags will be updated as we go. I've got a fair bit of this written, but it may be a few weeks before I can update the next chapter. After that it should be more regular.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Based on [this Kink Meme request](https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/156628.html?view=47399892#t47399892):
> 
> Sam falls into bed with Brady after discovering that Brady was more than happy to indulge Sam's perverse kink(s) (something like Sam wanting to be the receiving partner in watersports, feminization, heavy BDSM, humiliation, etc.). They break up when Brady gets too demanding or takes too many risks, and Sam starts dating the lovely but very vanilla Jessica, with Brady's encouragement. But once Sam and Jess get serious, Brady blackmails Sam into continuing to have sex with him, taking things even more extreme, even including kinks Sam's not into, because now Sam has something he can't bear to lose.

Of all the people Sam met in his first year at Stanford, it was Tyson Brady whom he ended up being closest to. In a lot of ways—some of them more intimate than others. Which would have struck him as ridiculous, if you'd told him when they'd first met.

It wasn't that he hated Brady on sight, or anything like that. He'd liked him just fine, even. When they'd teamed up for a project in their Anthropology class, they'd worked together well. Brady seemed decent enough: smart, affable, funny, hardworking despite his decidedly affluent background (Sam knew better than to think all rich kids were spoiled and lazy, but he'd definitely run across a few of that sort in his short time on campus). Kind of hot, too, in a _'sipping from a thermos on the cover of an LL Bean catalog in a cable-knit sweater'_ kind of way—nice to look at, but definitely not Sam's type, and way out of his price range. 

And that was most of the problem with Brady. 

See, when it came to girls, Sam didn't really have a type, per se. They usually had a few things in common: wickedly smart, self-possessed, interesting to talk to, and around the same age as him. But, while there hadn't been all that many yet—he was definitely nowhere _close_ to Dean numbers—the few he'd been with had run the gamut from the cute, ambitious academic team president who would spank Sam when he got flash cards wrong, to the snarky goth chick who dragged him to industrial shows and made him eat her out during intermissions in the alley behind the club, to the rugby team captain who liked to have her girlfriend hold Sam's arms down with her thighs so they could make out with each other while she rode Sam like a pony. 

But when it came to guys...yeah, he couldn't deny that he had a type.

And he seemed to have a much easier time picking up guys than he did girls, so there had been more to compare. He still liked them smart, sure; but it often tended to manifest in a wry, acerbic wit rather than purely scholarly achievement. The ones he went for also tended to be domineering, a little gritty (hell, call it what it was, he was a sucker for a streak of brutality). Sam liked when men had a certain aura, one that scared him a little. And when he didn't feel truly safe with them...yeah, it turned him on all the more, he'd admit it.

And, mostly, not that he was specifically looking for it, they tended to be, well...older. Like five or six years; even more, on a couple of occasions. There were one or two hunters that didn't mind helping Sam out with _'extra training'_ when they'd met up with John for longer hunts. And, while there had been a few seniors or college guys when he was in high school—either the kind of shithead who'd spent time in and out of juvie, or the repressed, overly masculine jocks that tended to get pulled from games too often for unnecessary aggression—he'd found that guys his own age rarely could give him what he wanted, what he needed. 

Especially not clean-cut, vanilla guys like Brady.

It wasn't like he tried to avoid them. He'd had a few crushes on sensitive poet types, or drama nerds with their refreshing lack of emotional repression, but it had never gone anywhere. To be fair, those kind of guys didn't tend to go for him, either. Sam always felt like maybe they could sense something about him; a dirtiness, an impurity, something compromised, and compromising. An aura, if you like, one that warned them off. Sure, they'd be nice, could become decent friends, even, but they'd never flirt with him like they might with even the painfully straight boys. They weren't for Sam, and he wasn't for them. That's just the way it was.

Which is why Brady threw him for a loop, right off the bat.

It was Sam's first semester, and he wasn't having the easiest time adjusting. Everything that had happened...back _home_...still left him reeling if he spent too much time thinking about it.

He also didn't know how to turn his adrenaline-tuned instincts and paranoia off when they were no longer needed here—he'd traumatized his poor roommate when he had leaned over Sam's bed to borrow the coffee mug off his dresser early one morning. Sam had him in a choke-hold on the floor before he realized where he was and what was going on. Luckily, Matt hadn't turned on the lights yet, so he didn't see the knife that Sam had been holding an inch from the side of his neck before he came to his senses and shoved it back under his pillow. He'd apologized profusely, but Matt was _really_ careful not to touch his stuff anymore. 

But most of all, Sam was having a hard time _being himself._ He'd spent so many years putting on a front to blend into the borders and slide under the radars of both the hunting community and the countless schools they passed through. Now that he was in a place of his own, by his own choice, he didn't know how to act. Who exactly to be.

He'd only really ever let his guard down with De-( _and, no, he cut off that line of thinking; there be dragons, and all that._ ) Here, though, he didn't want to get used to wearing a mask and never making any real friends. But he couldn't exactly be open about his past or his family. So he'd mostly focused on his studying and figuring out the rhythm of living in one place all the time, at least until he felt a little more stable and confident. Most people assumed he was shy or just not particularly sociable and had given him space.

Brady definitely did not believe in giving people space.

Sam had arrived a little early at the library where they were meeting, and had managed to claim what had become one of his favorite study spaces in the two months since school started, a faded old couch with a low table in front of it that was great for spreading out books and papers. It was partially nostalgia, reminded him of studying in motel rooms while Dean watched old westerns next to him, but it was also comfortable if you knew you were going to spend several hours researching. He'd sat closer to the arm of the couch, giving Brady plenty of room on the other half.

Brady didn't seem to get that message.

He'd sauntered through the library, waving at someone he knew, and then grinned when he'd spotted Sam on the couch, turning that laid-back swagger towards him.

"Ah, a man after my own heart!"

And Brady flopped his J Crew body down, right on Sam's half of the couch. Mere inches from Sam. As he turned to open his messenger bag and take out his notebooks, his hip and thigh and biceps brushed Sam's.

"You picked the best seat in the house. My last project partner swore he couldn't concentrate if he was _too comfortable_. Made us sit in those awful plastic chairs straight from the 70s over near periodicals. To _help him stay focused_ and _not fall asleep_." He tsked, shaking his head.

"Weak of body, weak of mind." He looked Sam over appraisingly. "Obviously you're not either of those, hmm?"

"Um...I guess not?"

Sam was torn. He didn't want to come off as a dick and scoot away down the couch, especially since that would jam him right up against the arm, and be really obvious. Sam wasn't against a little casual human contact, in principle. He just wasn't _used_ to it. It felt weird, and it was totally throwing him off.

"Thanks for doing this project with me, by the way, man." Brady leaned back, rested his arm along the back of the couch behind Sam. "You always ask such interesting questions in class, I figured you'd be cool to work with."

Sam shot him a small, awkward smile. "Thanks..." He opened his binder and pulled out the list he had made over the last few days. "I put together a few ideas for potential topics. Obviously, if you've got a better idea, or don't like any of these, we don't have to-"

"No, dude, this is great!" He grabbed the list and looked it over. "Oh, you came up with a _lot_ of them. And there are some awesome ideas here! 'Capgras delusion and shapeshifter folklore', wow, that sounds really cool...'limerence/erotomania, succubi/incubi, cupids, and love potions', oooh, i like that one—Dr. Halston would probably like it, too, such a perv. 'Cryptomnesia or novel religious revelation?' huh, you'll have to explain to me where you're going with that one, I know fuck-all about religious studies, but it sounds interesting... You're really good at the whole 'creative thinking' thing, Sam."

Brady dropped his hand on Sam's thigh and gave his leg a little shake, beamed at him. Sam's dick gave a happy little twitch at both the touch and the praise, while big Sam quietly freaked out upstairs. "I definitely picked the right partner." He leaned back with the list in his hand, the other still resting comfortably on Sam's leg, looked over at him. "So, _'Culture and Madness'_ class, huh? Are you an Anthro major?"

Sam made a conscious effort to relax. _Be cool, Sam. Brady isn't flirting with you. He's a nice guy, they don't do that. He must just be the touchy-feely, affectionate sort. And...that's cool. Could definitely get used to that_.

"Nah, right now I'm aiming at Criminal Justice. Maybe Philosophy as a double major, 'cause, well, the law school here is _really_ competitive, and I'll need to stand out. Freshman, so, you know, the major could change, but I'm pretty set on SLS either way."

"So, are you just all about the magic, then, or the mental illness?" Brady smirked at him.

Sam grinned; Brady had a disarming kind of charm.

"Why not both?"

"A gentleman of diverse interests, huh?" Brady laughed, slid his hand up, squeezed Sam's knee.

"You could say that."

Sam turned a bit to look him over better. Nice smile. Strong-looking shoulders. Sam was tall, but skinnier than he seemed; didn't weigh as much as people often thought. He'd bet Brady might be able to hold him up against a wall, or maybe hanging off a countertop would work better... _Stop it, Sam! If you're lucky, you've found yourself a friend, maybe. Don't fuck it up!_

"How about you? Was it the 'madness' or the 'culture' that pulled you in?"

"I'm BioChem. I mean, basically, I'm pre-med. Not going for psych as a specialty, but this seemed way more relevant than the European history class that was my other option, y'know?" Brady shrugged.

"And I'm a freshman, too, but also not gonna be changing majors. I've basically been pre-pre-med since I was like twelve. Both my parents are in the medical field. Mom's an orthopedic surgeon and Dad's a cardiologist." He gave a little self-deprecating laugh. "Pretty much the family dynasty. Big scrubs to fill."

"Hmmm, I can understand that. My family's kind of got the whole traditional family business thing going, too. Lots of expectations."

"Oh, you come from a long line of high-powered lawyers, do you? Then it was definitely a smart move to befriend you!"

Sam huffed out a laugh, tried to make sure it didn't sound bitter. "No, no lawyers in my family. Nothing like that. I'm kind of...breaking with tradition, you could say."

Brady cocked his head as he regarded Sam. "I've got to admire that kind of independence. It takes balls. I don't know what I would have done if I didn't actually _want_ to be a doctor." He gave Sam's knee another squeeze.

"Probably would have done the same thing I'm doing now, but I'd drop out my first year of med school from a nervous breakdown, like my cousin Lucas. End up in Indonesia, trying to learn to surf and taking too much mescaline and telling everyone how I'm definitely going to become a buddhist monk soon, once I find the _right monastery._ "

He patted Sam's knee once, and then removed his hand so he can grab his notebook off the table. Sam missed its weight immediately. "Don't ask. Aunt Katherine has made family holidays so much more entertaining now that she reads us his letters after her second bottle of prosecco. She's a gastroenterologist, by the way."

"Wow, you really meant it when you said 'family dynasty'."

"Yep, it's whitecoats all the way down."

Brady dropped the notebook on his lap, snugging his leg up against Sam's in the process. "So, Sammy. We got a lot of work ahead of us. The easy part is gonna be the research, I think, because the shit your brain comes up with is damned interesting. The hard part is going to be choosing just one of these."

He smiled and shook the list. "So, let's get down to business! Oh, before we get too into it, though—I can already tell we're definitely gonna need to unwind before the weekend is over. I know a great bar you'd love. You got any plans for tomorrow night? And I _know_ you have a fake ID, right?" He grinned and winked at Sam, before taking his pen to mark all the project ideas he thought would work. Sam just blinked at him a few times before grabbing his own legal pad.

And that's how Brady kicked off three of the most confusing months that Sam's dick had ever experienced.

Despite his expectations, Sam and Brady ended up hanging out even more after their week-long project was completed. First, it was back to the same bar Brady had taken him to that first weekend, to celebrate _fuckin' killing that project!_ This was apparently done with Brady buying rounds of all kinds of expensive beer that Sam hadn't really known existed. Brady seemed to take delight in introducing him to _imperial stouts_ and _IPAs_ and _quadrupels_. Laughed when Sam playfully hissed at him when he tried to steal a sip of Sam's _La Fin du Monde_. Laughed when Sam'd slurred out that he'd always thought that the varieties of beer pretty much ended at _regular_ and _light_.

Sam wasn't too drunk to notice that Brady had a great laugh. Uninhibited, unself-conscious. Sexy.

And then, a week later, Sam had to _come meet some of his friends, he'd love them_. So he hung out, increasingly tipsy in Brady's nice-but-not-too-ostentatious apartment, noticing, with equal parts relief and disappointment, that Brady seemed to be pretty affectionate with all his friends. Maybe a little more so with Sam, but that was likely because Sam was so touch-starved that friendly, empathetic Brady could just tell he needed it more.

He even kindly helped keep Sam upright against the kitchen island, with his arm around Sam's waist, pressing his hip into Sam's, after they downed their third round of shots to celebrate _that A we fuckin' earned, baby_.

Sam was lucky to have found a such a good friend as Brady.

Sam met a lot of great people through Brady, too. Found some good study partners, people to party with, even a few people he'd call real friends. But none of them quite like Brady.

He was the kind of friend who was just fine studying in comfortable silence for hours, often on their favorite couch in the library, but just as often in Sam's dorm room or Brady's apartment, always sitting close enough to brush against Sam or drop his hand to the back of his neck and dig in for a friendly massage when Sam got too tense and absorbed in his work. But he was also the type to drag Sam out every so often when he'd hermited for too long. Get some drinks in him, out with friends at bars or clubs or the odd house party, or the just two of them at a movie or grabbing some dinner if Sam was feeling too overwhelmed for a crowd.

They crashed at each other's places fairly often, at first only when they'd had a bit too much to drink and one of them didn't feel like making the long stumble back to their place, and they'd just head to whoever's was closest.

But as time went on, it happened with more frequency, when a study session had gone too late, or they'd settled in for a movie marathon in front of Brady's big TV, or sat up in Sam's room playing poker and talking about everything and nothing half the night. Sam was used to having to share a bed with another tall guy after a lifetime in tiny motel rooms, but he was grateful that Brady didn't seem to be weirded out waking up crammed up against his best friend's back in a too-small bed.

Sam wasn't surprised in the slightest to find that his friend was a cuddler in his sleep, too; he'd often wake up to Brady wrapped around him, knees pressed up against the back of Sam's, one arm wrapped over his waist, snoring gently into the back of his neck. Sam didn't mind; he was much less prone to nightmares when he slept with somebody close by. 

But Brady proved his friendship in that regard, as well.

The first time Sam woke up screaming in Brady's apartment, he was sure he was gonna get kicked out. But Brady brought him out of it by calmly and softly repeating that Sam _was ok,_ that _he was here,_ it _would be ok,_ and, once he was sure Sam wasn't still caught in the throes of his nightmare, rubbing a comforting circle on his back until his breathing slowed down. He asked if Sam wanted to talk about it, but dropped it when he shook his head.

Brady insisted that Sam come and share his bed for the rest of the night instead of staying on the couch ( _c'mon, my bed is bigger than your little dorm twin thing, and I wanna make sure you can fall back asleep after that, it sounded intense_ ). He drifted off with Brady's hand stroking gently through his hair that night.

Sam found out later that Brady knew how to wake up a panicked sleeper so well because of his little sister. She suffered from night terrors, and his room had been right next to hers. Their mom had said it was best to just let her wail it out, that she'd never outgrow it if they all coddled her. But Brady hadn't been the one whose bedtime routine included Xanax and gin and ear plugs, so he'd learned how to properly wake and calm someone caught in a nightmare. After that night, Brady never let Sam sleep on the couch anymore when he crashed at his apartment.

Sam was grateful for everything Brady did for him.

But he also felt bad about it. For one thing, Brady did so many thoughtful things for Sam. He'd insist on paying a lot of the time when they went out. He'd never bring up how utterly broke Sam was, instead insisting _it wasn't his money anyways, it was his parents', and the were kind of assholes_. So it made Brady happy to blow their money on people he actually _liked_ rather than all the bullshit high society groups they expected him to join. He also seemed to know when Sam was uncomfortable in a social situation, and would find a way to extract them without anyone else realizing what was happening. 

Brady had tried to get him to come home with him over Christmas break—never once saying anything about Sam being lonely with no one around, but instead insisting that he needed him to save Brady from the insanity and give him a good reason to avoid his family as much as possible. When Sam declined, since Brady's parents hadn't issued the invitation, and _I don't know, it'd feel wrong, you know? Don't want to take advantage,_ Brady had accepted it gracefully and just told him he'd be missed sorely.

On Christmas morning, Sam woke up to a text from Brady telling him to look under his bed. He pulled out a box, neatly wrapped in the ugliest wrapping paper ever seen by man. 

_-dude where the hell did you even get nsync xmas gift wrap?? XD_

 _-dont ask took 4ever to find  
-had to fight a 13yo for the last 1  
-still got bruise on my shin  
-the things i do 4 u bitch  
-now open it!!_

Inside was a key to Brady's apartment and over a dozen DVDs—Silence of the Lambs, The Night of the Hunter, Henry, American Psycho, Badlands...

 _-brady, wtf?  
-this is too much_

 _-whatevr just need some1 to keep an eye on my apt ovr brk  
-u <3 serial killrs weirdo so make use of my big tv  
-and my big bed ;)_

 _-wow, thanks, man :)  
-really, I mean it  
-you're the best_

Brady was sarcastic, but kind; charming, but genuine...just a good guy all around. Popular. People liked being around him. Several girls in their group of friends were angling for his attention. A couple of guys were interested, too, Sam was sure.

He often wondered what he brought to the table. Most of their friend group they knew through Brady. They all seemed to like Sam well enough (except for maybe a few of the girls in Brady's fan club, for some reason), but he was on the quieter side with them, and sometimes felt a little awkward and out of place, still. But he'd introduced Brady to Maya and Jermaine, who worked at the coffee shop with him. Brady came in for breves when Sam was on shift and fell right in with their snarky banter. So Sam guessed wasn't entirely useless in the social department.

He also tried to pay attention to what Brady might need, to be a good friend to him in return, but there wasn't much he could give Brady that he didn't have already.

He'd quietly fixed the leaky sink in the bathroom that had been driving Brady crazy and leaving puddles on the floor, that apartment maintenance claimed there was no way they could get to for at least three weeks. He'd tried to do it without Brady noticing, but he'd figured it out. Seemed touched, and pleased; told Sam he was _so good at this stuff, fixing things, figuring stuff out, he was amazing,_ and Brady _wasn't even sure which tools you'd use for plumbing, like, a wrench, right?_ And his praise left Sam flushing and half-hard, but he knew that Brady could have afforded to hire a plumber if he'd really wanted to get it fixed right away. And Sam wasn't really all that mechanically inclined, that had always been Dean's forte. 

Brady had also seemed impressed when Sam'd sewed up a rip in his favorite chinos; and he _couldn't even see the stitches, I thought I was gonna have to toss these_ and _where did he learn to sew like that, Sam was just full of the best surprises._ Sam just smiled, and didn't mention that when you were as poor and itinerant as his family, you learned to fix the few things you owned pretty fast, or you walked around in torn and frayed clothes. 

Then there was the time that utter douchebag, Derek, stole Brady's PlayStation. They knew it was him, but because Derek still lived at home and no one went over his place, they couldn't prove he had it. Sam waited till he knew Derek was at a frat party and everyone else in his house was asleep, picked the locks, grabbed the console from Derek's room, and quietly locked the door behind him when he left. Sam wouldn't tell Brady how he got it back, but Brady just grabbed Sam under one arm, grabbed a handful of his hair with the other, kissed his cheek, and told him _he'd make the best damn lawyer ever, because he knew every damn side of the law._

So, maybe Brady felt like Sam was worth keeping around after all.

But that didn't solve the _other_ problem Sam had with Brady.

The problem that he couldn't figure out how to resolve, the one that kept him confused and guilty and often _very frustrated_. That problem being that Sam really, _really_ wanted something more than just the affectionate touches and playful roughhousing and friendly, teasing praise Brady showered on him.

He wanted Brady to pin him to the damn floor and just take what he wanted, to use Sam till he was raw and pleading and then maybe think about letting him come, if he felt like it. He also wanted Brady to be the big spoon and kiss his neck gently when he woke Sam up, already moving inside him. He wanted Brady to tell him that he was _so good, like amazing,_ that he _worked so hard even when he didn't need to_ and _how much he admired that._ But he also wanted Brady to talk about him like he wasn't even a person, fuck him viciously and carelessly in front of sneering, hungry watchers, asking afterwards if anyone else felt like _using this thing for what it's meant for._

So, yeah. Sam was pretty much fucked.

He knew that a guy like Brady would, first off, never be into a guy like Sam. Sam was fucked up and dirty, and Brady was a good guy. Sam should be happy with his friendship—and he _was_ , every minute of it—instead of skeeving on his best friend. Imagining how those future surgeon's fingers would feel shoved knuckle-deep in his ass when Brady innocently slung his arm around Sam and gripped his hip when they were walking home from the bar. He didn't even know if Brady was really into guys. He couldn't imagine being attracted to men and then sleeping in your boxers, wrapped around another guy, without needing to fuck at _some_ point. So he figured Brady just didn't want to.

Or maybe he just didn't find Sam attractive, which seemed more likely than not. Brady had a lot of options, some of the prettiest women and men on campus around him to choose from; he wouldn't be the type who would seek out someone whose only real attraction was being needy and willing to do anything.

And, secondly, even if, by some miracle, Brady _would_ want him, he'd never want him the way Sam needed to be wanted. He'd only get half of the equation he fantasized about with Brady—the sweet, caring side with the kisses and cuddling and the...boyfriend stuff. And that would be nice, it would be awesome, and maybe a refreshing change, or so Sam imagined. He'd never really had that, had something that wasn't fucked up at its core.

But he also couldn't imagine ever being satisfied without the other half, without all the shit he craved that would send Brady running for the hills if he ever knew. And the thought that Sam's needs—the one he'd always had, his darkness and perversion—might drive him to break up with Brady, or cheat on him, or make demands that disgusted him...the thought of hurting Brady, and losing his best friend... _that_ was the thought kept him solidly in the camp of deeply and permanently buried unrequited longing.

What's a bit of limerence between friends, anyways?

So, Sam got his fix in when he could. There was the campus maintenance worker with the deep-set eyes and the perfect cheekbones and the burn scars on the left side of his face, that Sam had caught eyeing his ass more than once on his way across the quad to his Poli Sci class. He was good for a rough fuck up against the concrete walls of the utility storage room every few weeks. Liked to make Sam strip naked, while he'd never do more than unzip and pull his cock out when he got tired of slapping or choking or biting Sam and was ready to fuck his face or ass. 

Or the dom couple he met at the leather bar on the outskirts of San Jose that time Brady was home for his sister's birthday. They took Sam back to their sleek steel-and-glass modernist home in the hills of Cupertino, and spent the weekend destroying him thoroughly, in their intimidatingly elegant dungeon with the skylights and cream walls and white-leather-everything.

After they let him out of the oubliette Sunday morning, while Geoff was gently washing the bloody lash marks on Sam's back in their sleek ceramic vessel tub—big enough to hold at least five large men—Andrew asked him if he'd be interested in making this a regular thing. They'd been looking for a sub for a while now, and apparently Sam fit their requirements perfectly.

Sam hadn't been able to hold in his disbelieving huff at that thought. He'd had caught the knowing look they shared at that response. But, instead of trying to push or demand he expose his self-doubt, Andrew simply stated that they had found it difficult to find a man of the qualities—and quality—they'd agreed on. Especially one that was into RACK; most were still so firmly devoted to SSC. They had also been patient and non-judgmental in explaining the acronyms meant when Sam had asked, blushing with mild embarrassment.

It was tempting, they would have him on weekends, and, if it went well, he could move in with them permanently next semester, get out of the dorms. Wouldn't have to work if he didn't want to. It was only about a thirty-minute drive to campus, and their home was beautiful and luxurious in a way Sam had never experienced, nor expected to. And he liked them, they were brutal and unforgiving when fucking and scening, but treated Sam with respect in their other interactions, while still managing to keep the power balance in play. But...outside of his schooling, they wanted a 24/7 dynamic.

And, while the idea of that made something in Sam pulse with heat, it also meant he'd be giving up his freedom, that he'd spurned his family to attain, for another kind of cage (even if a gilded and exquisitely tortuous one). And all his friends...he'd hardly ever see Brady.

In the end, Sam regretfully declined, and, while disappointed, the couple did make certain Sam had their contact information, and knew that he was more than welcome if he ever wanted to scene with them again. He did end up keeping in touch with them. Geoff, a senior software engineer at a notorious start-up, was surprisingly funny and goofy and irreverent in his texts. And Andrew—who was often stern, in a fatherly sort of way—was the CLO for a very impressive tech company. He gave Sam invaluable advice for maximizing his pre-law course experience, as well as incisive and amusingly scathing insight into the various law professors at Stanford and how to handle them. He met up with them a few more times, the most memorable being a three-night stay over New Year's Eve that nearly ended in a trip to the ER. 

And, of course, there was the little solo trip he took to San Francisco over Thanksgiving break, when the campus was near-empty and his own fucked-up version of home-sickness kicked in hard. He'd wandered around the city by himself for a bit, and then finally worked up the nerve to hit up a bathhouse he'd heard about in the Castro.

He wasn't even sure when he left the next morning how many men he'd been fucked by—he hadn't exactly taken on all comers, but damn near enough. The soreness he felt over the next two days had gone so far past pleasant. And he _loved_ it.

But in the end, he always came back to where he finally felt like he belonged: his home at Stanford, with his group of friends, his own tiny, shared dorm room, his underpaid job with its entitled customers, and his satisfyingly challenging courses. And most of all, back to Brady. His best friend, who kept him under his arm and under his thumb, if not under his body where Sam really wanted to be. 

And Sam could have stayed there pretty much forever, completely grateful and happier than he'd ever expected to be, if January hadn't happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's new normal isn't as different from his old normal as he'd like.

Sam hears the steps in the hallway before they even get to the door. He's still just under the threshold of sleep, but with enough of a thread of awareness to quickly cross the border, if needed. He doesn't wake up fully until he hears the key slide into the lock, quietly—trying to be silent, but the metal rubbing on metal is unmistakable. There's a soft, muted thump as shoes are toed off next to the door. Lying still in the dark, he listens to the soft, familiar footfalls on the carpet heading towards bedroom.

There's a moment's pause and Sam knows Brady is preparing himself to whump down on the bed and wake Sam up.

"Isso fuckin' early..." Sam mumbles. The clock agrees; almost 4 AM. 

There's a put-upon sigh, and Brady collapses on the mattress behind Sam. "Can't ever sneak up on you, can I, you fucker."

"Yr'ninja skills need work. Why din't you tell me what time you were gettin' in? I woulda gotten up."

Brady snorts, shifting to drape over Sam's back. "Eh, 's not like either of us has a car or anything. Was gonna have to take a cab either way. And you need your beauty sleep." He pokes Sam's dimple; Sam lazily bats his hand away.

Brady yawns extravagantly, buries his nose in the dark curls at Sam's neck. He sniffs his hair, "Mmmm smells so good. Why do you always smell so good..."

"Creep." Sam smiles. "Creepy hair-sniffin' creep."

Brady hums contentedly, "Yep."

Brady rolls over on to his back. Sam watches, amused, as Brady lifts his hips and shimmies his jeans down, stretching each leg and bending his knees awkwardly as he tries to pull and kick his jeans off without sitting up or completely lifting any part of his body off the bed.

"What. I can't sleep on planes. So I'm makin' up for that for like the next 10 hours." Brady rolls back over, grabs Sam and pulls him in to the curve of his body. "And so are you."

"Oh, am I?"

"Yeah, of course. You gonna make me suffer from jet lag all alone? What kind of friend are you?"

"Pffff. Jet lag." Sam nudges Brady's ribs with his elbow. "You were in the same time zone, you ass."

"Whatever, bitch. _'No-fuckin'-sleep-all-night-and-no-one-to pick-me-up-at-the-airport'_ lag, is that better?"

"Hey, I would have picked you up if you'd told me!"

"I know." There's a pause as Brady twines his feet through Sam's. "I'm just fucking with you, man."

Sam listens to Brady's soft breathing in the comfortable silence that ensues.

"Do you have to work today?"

"Nah. They gave me today off. Maya knew you were coming home. Plus, I opened yesterday, and closed on Thursday and there was an open mic thing that night, so I didn't get out till almost 2 AM. _Tired_." 

"Ah, poor baby, stuck with the old _'clopening'_."

Sam's nose crinkles. "Ugh, fuck you, I hate that word. Makes my skin crawl."

Brady sounds smug, the asshole. "I know."

Sam huffs; there's more of that comfortable quiet.

"So how were the holidays? The whole... trip home, family-togetherness thing?"

Brady groans, disgusted. "I don't even want to fuckin' talk about it."

Sam hums, pets over Brady's hand where it rests on his stomach, waits him out. 'Cause he knows Brady _totally_ wants to talk about it, thoroughly and extensively, and he just needs to give him space to get started.

Brady twitches. Sighs. Finally rolls over onto his back, but not without sliding his arm under Sam and rolling him over, too, so that he's half sprawled, on his stomach, over Brady's side, with his head resting on on Brady's chest. He starts playing idly with Sam's hair, staring at the ceiling, trying not to look monumentally pissy, and completely failing. Sam tries not to crack a smile.

Brady sighs again, loud and long. "I just don't fuckin' _get_ them! Like, they are the worst possible intersection of fuckin' crazy and fuckin' assholes. Two-and-a-half weeks of passive-aggressive, outright aggressive, snide, condescending, drunk, neurotic, backstabbing, self-aggrandizing, hypercritical, dramatic, insane _bullshit_. It would probably be entertaining if half of it wasn't directed at me and my sister." Worked up into a lather now, he tugs harder on the lock of Sam's hair that he's twisting in his fingers, with a sharp, painful tug at the roots. Sam slides his arm up over Brady's waist, partially in support, but partially to adjust his position so that he doesn't start to poke a hole in Brady's hip. "You should have been there. Next time, I'm making you come."

_You might do that now if you keep pulling on my hair, dude_ , Sam thinks wistfully. "I don't know, Brady. You're not really selling it..."

"You'd do it cause you don't want me to suffer alone."

"So you want me to suffer for you, hm?" _Fuck, please._

"Hmmmm, yeah, that sounds good." He tugs on Sam's hair again. "It's just so fuckin' infuriating. Y'know, it wouldn't be so bad if it was just me. I'm used to it. I can roll with it. They're mostly not _too_ disgusted with with me right now, anyways, since, you know, I got into Stanford, and I'm on the pre-med path, like a good son...though you can be damned sure I got raked over the coals for that B in Chem. Still, whatever, I put up with it for a couple of weeks, then I'm back here." He pats Sam's cheek. "You know, where the company is, like, at least tolerable."

Sam narrows his eyes at Brady and bites his pec in mock-outrage. 

Brady grins and yanks at Sam's hair again. "Such a bitch."

He goes back to twisting the strands between his fingers. Sighs. It's sadder and less dramatic now. "It's just... _Maura_ , you know? Kid's only 14. That's like, the worst age ever, you know? Everything's just so overwhelming and the whole world feels like it's against you and shit. You remember what that was like."

Sam swallows, looks away. "Yeah," he says quietly and seriously. "I do."

Brady sighs again. "And in her case, the world _is_ pretty much against her. I mean, it's bad enough she doesn't fit in at the stuck-up private school they send her to, and all the shit she puts up with there. But my parents make her life hell at home, too. Especially my mother. I mean, the woman is a horrendous bitch, and she always made me feel like I wasn't good enough, either, but... like, _some_ times she was ok. I knew she loved me in her own twisted way. But I'm pretty sure she actually just _hates_ Maura, though. It fuckin' hurts to even say it. I don't know how anyone could hate that kid. She's so sweet, and, like, super-talented." Another deep sigh, like taking in enough of the air that he and Sam share will wash away the lingering taste of family melodrama.

"She's lucky she has you."

Brady looks at him doubtfully, "I dunno, I feel like I don't do much to help. I'm not there anymore or anything..."

"Yeah, but you keep in touch with her. A lot. She knows she has your support. That there's someone that, like, loves her, no matter who she is, or what she does."

Brady frowns, thoughtful. "Maybe. Doesn't seem like enough, though..."

"Believe me, it means a lot more than you know." Sam swallows, quickly adds on, "If nothing, you're showing her that it's ok to _not_ be an asshole. That it's good to be nice."

"That's really the problem, though. Mother doesn't approve of nice. Kindness and sensitivity and human decency is _weak._ And _'the weak don't do the eating, they just get eaten.'_ "

"Yeah...that's fucked up. And it sounds like she would get along great with my Dad." Sam looks at Brady quizzically. "But, Brady...she doesn't hate _you_. And, I mean, you're nice."

Brady looks at Sam with disbelief. "Oh, _Sam_..." shakes his head. "You sweet summer child."

Sam scoffs. "Whatever. You can't fool me. You're a _nice guy_ , Tyson Brady." He pokes him hard in the chest. "You asshole."

Brady smiles at him fondly, like you would at a slow-witted, but endearing child. Pats Sam's cheek again. "That's why I love you, Sammy. You see the best in everyone. Even when it's not there."

Sam flushes and turns his face away, buries it in Brady's shirt. "You're so full of shit," he mutters.

Brady chuckles, resumes stroking Sam's hair. "You're so easy."

There's more quiet. It's more subdued, more melancholy, than before. Still not uncomfortable, though.

"What about your dad?" Sam asks quietly.

"Pfffff." Brady's exhale is less of a laugh, more of a sneer. "He may as well not be there. A cardboard cutout would have about the same warmth as he does. Maybe more. _Probably_ more. And when he made chief physician four years ago, he pretty much did stop actually ever being there. I saw him like maybe an hour a week during high school. Anyways, he's a dick, too, just easier to deal with 'cause y'never see him." Brady waves off the invisible specter of his dad dismissively. "He's never really cared about any of us, anyways; not his kids, not my mom. I dunno, I can pretty much ignore he exists most of the time, but, still...at least with Mom, she feels _something_ , even if it's mostly vitriol and disappointment. I'd probably take her brand of bullshit over his ninety-percent of the time."

Brady looks off to the distance, runs his nails across Sam's scalp, casually says, "Y'know, sometimes I think you're lucky you don't have to deal with your family. Maybe I should cut off contact with mine, too."

Sam makes a non-committal noise. If it sounds a little strangled, Brady doesn't seem to notice. "Maybe." He picks some imaginary lint off of Brady's shirt. "But if you did, how would I ever find out what Lucas is up to? Has he found a monastery up to his high standards yet? Made the switch from mescaline to ecstasy? Ditched his surfboard for rollerblades?"

Brady blinks at Sam, and then grins at him with an odd mix of rakishness and gratitude. "Funny you should say that..."

...

The next couple of days were good. _Really_ good. They had almost a week together before classes started. Brady would meet Sam after his shift ended on days he worked; they'd head out to meet up with their friends, who were trickling back in to Palo Alto from break, at a bar or park or at one of their apartments. Sometimes Sam and Brady would just head back to his place by themselves; order in and Sam would catch Brady up on the best of their serial killer movie collection. It felt like a pleasant hiatus from reality—very little stress, easy companionship, being fucking _lazy_ if they wanted to— _I didn't know you actually were capable of relaxing, Winchester, it's a good look on you_. Even once classes started, Sam didn't feel overwhelmed those first few days, still felt that content _happiness_ he was reluctant to examine too closely, for fear it would collapse like a house of cards.

In retrospect, that instinct was for good reason.

It's Wednesday when the dreams start.

He's sleeping alone in his dorm room tonight. Thursdays were going to be rough for Brady this semester; he has O Chem, Molecular Biology,, Calc 2, _and_ a lab. All on the same day ( _did you, like, kick your advisor's dog or something?_ ). Sam had decided that he'd give Brady his space on Wednesday nights so he'll at least be as well-rested as possible for his personal Hell Days. No late-night movie marathons or last-minute study sessions at 11 PM to distract him. And Matt hadn't come home this evening, leaving the room empty for Sam to study.

His roommate had finally found his group over the fall; had taken to playing hacky-sack in the quad, wearing tie-died Dead t-shirts, sporting some fuzzy blonde baby-dreads. He would come back from his girlfriend's co-op apartment reeking of patchouli and weed. Sam could almost _hear_ what Dean would say. But he found that he enjoyed being around Matt more now than he had when they'd first arrived. The edge of constant anxiety had been worn away. He smiled more now, and it looked like he meant it. He'd swapped his _Managerial Accounting_ and _Marketing Analytics_ classes for _Metalogic_ and _Building Heaven and Hell_. When Sam had walked in on him blowing the smoke from his joint out the window through a paper towel tube stuffed with dryer sheets, instead of panicking he'd tentatively offered a hit to Sam. They'd passed it back and forth, and ended up having a fascinating, if somewhat digressive, conversation about Abrahamic cosmology and how it contrasted with Eastern and Mesoamerican religions' concepts of space and time, and in particular how they respectively treated apocalyptic myths. They weren't exactly best friends now, but they got along all right. Matt did spend more time away from the dorm these days, though. Drum circle tonight, or something.

So when Sam wakes up gasping and panting in bed, throat a bit strained from whimpering (at least, he hopes he hadn't been screaming, he doesn't need the RA coming down here to check on him), there's no one to wake up, to worry. No one to bother with the detritus of his nightmares.

And he's grateful. Because Sam has all _kinds_ of nightmares. He has so many about things that have _actually_ happened to him, and they are gruesome and shameful and agonizing, and he'd never tell anyone about them, or risk being locked up, or pitied, or repudiated. He has them about things that _nearly_ happened: Dean or Dad being a second later than they had been with a shot taken during a hunt; being torn apart in front of his eyes instead of doing the tearing apart themselves. He has the kind that he can't really quantify, that are full of unfathomable, immeasurable horrors, that leave him unable to close his eyes in the darkness that remains after. And then he has _these_.

The kind that come true.

He's had premonitory dreams for a long time. He doesn't remember exactly when they started. He didn't know what they were at first—it wasn't until a hunt when he was nine that he realized. He was only supposed to be there to paint Aegishjalmur in fox blood on all the alder trees surrounding the clearing. The skoffin had only been seen previously near dusk, so they thought prepping the area at noon would be safe enough. His father had given them all mirrored sunglasses anyways, just to be safe.

But when Sam had clambered down from a particularly large tree with a split trunk, he'd heard a hissing growl behind him, and had suddenly frozen in place with an overwhelming sense of _familiarity_ that transcended deja vu. He'd _seen_ this, _felt_ this—that scar in the tree trunk where it split that looked like a nine-pointed star, the yellowish tint of the sky through his glasses, the slap of the bloody paintbrush across his forearm as he flinched at that wretched sound. There was a flash of ragged red fur out of the corner of his eye, and the loud report of a gun, and a sharp slicing pain across his shoulder. He'd stumbled back and fallen on to the ground and found himself eye-to-eye with the skoffin—fortunately already dead from the silver-and-knucklebone-powder bullet lodged in its head.

Sam laid there panting, disoriented enough that he didn't even notice at first that Dean's bullet had creased his shoulder, as the skoffin had already launched itself at Sam as he lined up the shot. Dean was pale and distraught at how quiet Sam was, thinking he'd hurt or traumatized him. Sam just kept replaying the moments in his head...they'd happened _exactly the same way_ they had in the dreams he'd been having all week.

It took him two days to summon up the courage to tell his father. When he had, John had worn that resolute look that he got when told something that he didn't want to hear, but had, nonetheless, expected. He told Sam that, if his dreams showed any sign of danger to anyone, he was to tell John immediately. But that he was never to tell anyone else about them. Ever. _Not even if_ —and his dad had gripped his arm hard enough to leave finger-sized bruises for the next week and shook him forcefully enough to make his teeth clack. _Never, Sam, do you hear me? You don't talk about this with anyone._

Sam had held to that warning for years. Eventually, he had told a few people about it. Those he had trusted with the secret, rightfully or wrongly. But only a few. He hated to speak of these dreams, because he hated having them in the first place. When he'd told Dean about them, Dean had assumed it would be like watching a horror movie, grisly, and kind of scary, but in the third person and remote, so, _y'got the shining, huh? you know, sounds kind of bad ass and cool, Sammy; just don't go all Carrie on me_. After he'd smacked Dean in the arm because _I'm not a prom queen and I don't have pyrokinesis, jerk,_ he'd explained what it was really like. And Dean had been chastened and apologized, because, _yeah, that sounds like it really sucks_.

It does.

He experiences every premonition as if he is the subject of it. If they watch their loved ones being killed in front of them, he feels their overwhelming anguish and grief. If they are killed violently, he experiences every moment of terror and panic and flesh-rending pain along with them, followed by the sudden, obliterating impact, or slow greying out, of death. He's as confused and scared, or angry and bloodthirsty, or despairing and fatalistic as whomever it is whose moments of tragedy he violates.

What makes it even worse is that these terrible, prophetic dreams are _useless_ just as often as they have helped others save people. The tend to come on like a rusty faucet starting after years of sitting dry; sputtering and broken up at first, cloudy and dim, drizzling out in drops and drips over multiple nights, before they finally clear the lines and flow out in a drowning outpour.

The first few days he usually just gets glimpses. Fragments, often fuzzy. Whether he'll see something clear or complete enough to make an identification in time is mostly luck, it seems. He doesn't always know those he dreams about. Unknown hunters, civilians...a few times, monsters themselves (he never told his dad about _those_ ).

But having to go through all of it, just to have it be futile in the end, always crushed him. There are things he'd learned how to do over the years to make the dreams come more quickly, intensely, and frequently, to make them more effective, but...much to his shame, it's not something he can stomach anymore, especially since he no longer has a way to act on them. He'd even made a small talisman that can block them. Not entirely; it's a small thing. A charm, really; more of a filter than an actual _block_. He felt too much guilt to absolve himself completely of the potential deaths he would be responsible for; so the strong ones, the major ones, can still creep in.

He knows he makes a poor sibyl; weak-willed, unable to detach or distance himself from the emotions and dread these prophetic dreams bring on. 

They wreck him.

This one is no different. Bloody, so _bloody_. Panic, regret, determination, horror. A sickening crunching; a cry; a wet ripping sound. A dark, fast-moving blur, huge; too _big_ , too _fast_. A pale hand held up in futile protection or supplication, its definition smeared by tears or panic. Teeth, _too many sharp teeth_ , coming straight at him, too fast. Then pain; unimaginable. Then darkness.

Fuck.

He grabs the closest notebook and scrawls down what he can pull from the dream. Despite the techniques he's learned for amplifying recall, it's not much. Nothing useful, of course. Disjointed. The blur of trees in the background, more deciduous than coniferous. That only excludes certain regions, but does little to winnow down what remains. The beast was large, and sharp-toothed, and moved fast, but that could be so many things. He couldn't tell if it had fur or scales or feathers or naked flesh. Not even enough to tell if it had limbs. The hand was pale, with pinkish undertones, he would guess male, but not definitively. White, maybe, but could be hispanic or asian. Filtering out for white, male hunters would do fuck-all to narrow the pool, anyways. He _would_ guess hunter, though. No feeling of shock or confusion, and that _determination_ was that of someone who'd gone up against this kind of assault before; was used to prevailing.

It's not enough.

He only toys with the idea of calling his father for a few seconds; it's unlikely John would even pick up, and he'd be disgusted with Sam for offering him such useless scraps, more signs of his inadequacy. And he'd like to think there'd be more of a chance of Dean actually answering his call, but...honestly, he doesn't know anymore. There'd be nothing Dean could do, either, with the information he has at this point. The only thing he would end up doing right now is annoying them. And confirming how _useless_ he is.

He's just going to have to wait and see what kind of details he can get if he has this dream again.

_When_ he has it again.

_"FUCK!"_

He throws his notebook across the room. The muted noise it makes as it hits the wall and falls to the floor is not nearly satisfying enough. Sam drops his head in his hands. _Why_ , just when he thought he was out? Part of him had known there would always be something that tied him to the metanatural and all that surrounded it, but he'd hoped that by distancing himself, by removing himself from the hunter community, the threads would thin out enough so that nothing of import could reach him, and what dregs _did_ could be ignored. But he supposes that no matter how hard he tries to slip into the pool of normality he's dipping his toes in, he can't stop being who he is, not completely. A _freak_ , an outlier, an aberration. _Sam fucking Winchester._

He glances at the clock next to his bed. 5:17. He doesn't have any classes today until 10:30, isn't scheduled to work, but there was no way he's going back to sleep right now. He sighs and shifts his long legs over the side of the bed. May as well go for a run. A long one. Sweat some of the unease and worry out of his system. And if that doesn't suffice, he'll hit up the gym. Maybe see if Martin is working the grounds today...

As Sam pulls on his sweatpants, he feels guilt bubbling up. He knows he should be worried about the victims he saw in his dreams, focused on what he can do to help save them. But all he can feel is regret as he looks back and sees the bliss of the last few weeks slip from his grasp.

...

By that evening, Sam is feeling marginally better. He'd pushed the dream and all it implies into a space in the back of his head, diverted a stream of his mind wrestle with it while he focused on the important parts of his day. His workout had left his muscles pleasantly sore and stretched. No Martin, but that's just as well; he knows he'll crash at Brady's tonight and he usually sleeps without a shirt, so he doesn't want to have to try and cover up any bruises.

He'd run into Maya on the quad, and they'd sat on the grass, in the crisp winter sun, while she'd regaled him with her mixture of sharp-tongued gossip, storytelling, and banter that would normally leave him snorting with laughter and heart-eyed. He won't deny he has a bit of a crush on Maya, with her hazelnut skin and hazel eyes and terrifying intellect, but he's far from the only one who does. Brady's drunkenly proposed to her at least twice. It's a bit like being enamored of a movie star; they bask in her attention, but she's far too good for any of them, and they all know it. Especially Maya herself. She's never held it against them. Any time spent with her, especially outside of work, has always lifted his mood. 

Still, she had noticed something was off with him.

"You're not up here with the rest of us today, Winchester. Making me do all the work; carry the whole conversation while you sit back like a princess on her palanquin and. Soak. It. All. Up." She makes a gesture that encompasses her in her entirety. "Now, don't get me wrong, you're pretty enough to look at even when you aren't lifting your weight, so I'll let it slide this time. But you'd best take care of whatever's eating at you. I know you're not the type to get moody over irrelevant shit, so it's likely something you don't want to let go for too long."

He gives her a lopsided smile. "You don't miss anything, do you, Maya?"

"No, I really don't." She pats his knee reassuringly, and they both turn to watch the flow of bodies across the quad. "You seeing your boy today?"

He throws her a quizzical look. "...my boy?"

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head. "I swear, you guys are so dumb I sometimes wonder how you haven't choked on your own tongues yet. Let alone how you ended up _here_." She sighs. "Never mind whose boy is whose. You'll figure it out." She smirks in a way that would have melted Sam if he wasn't so distracted today. "Anyways, you hanging out with Brady later?"

"Yeah. Gonna get some classwork done, make some dinner."

"You're gonna let that boy _cook_ for you?" Her look is justifiably dubious. They both remember, with much amusement, Brady's drunken attempt to make them grilled cheese in the small hours of the morning. Flipping the sandwiches before putting the top piece of bread and then wandering away on had not been one of his finer moments. He'd ended up having to throw the pan away, open the windows, and then order pizza.

"Hey, how do you know _I'm_ not cooking for _him_?" He asks with the proper amount of indignation.

" _Please._ " Maya is queen of eye rolls. "Sam, honey, don't think I forgot what happened when I asked you to bring me more toasted coconut for that stupid weekly special."

Sam's cheeks flood pink. "How was I supposed to know that there was already a bin of it made up in the pantry? Or that coconut is so fucking _flammable?_ "

"You are _so_ lucky that Tina was there and had the presence of mind to grab a damp towel." She snickers at the look on his face. " _'Oh, but, Maya, I just figured turning it up to 425 would toast it faster, and we were sooooo busy!'_ "

The wounded look he shoots her is ruined by the smile he can't suppress. "So _mean_."

By the time he shows up at Brady's door, he's fairly upbeat. He's determined that, by the lack of clarity or immediacy of the dream, there was still some time before whatever tragedy it was showing him came to pass; at least a few weeks. _If_ it came to pass. This far out, there's still enough bifurcations of choice and chance and possibility that it's feasible it just might not happen of its own accord, and he won't even experience a repeat of the vision.

He digs his keys out of his backpack and lets himself in. Kicks his shoes off under the hall table, dropping his bag on top. He can hear noises from the kitchen; and it smells _really_ damn good.

"What the hell are you making, Brady? It smells _really_ damn good."

"Why do you sound so surprised, bitch?"

Sam grins, leaning against the wall, watching Brady stir something in a saucepan. "Experience."

Brady points his wooden spoon at Sam threateningly. "You haven't experienced anything yet, Winchester. Just you wait." He turns back to his cooking, pours the sauce over a ceramic bowl filled with noodles. "I'll have you know I'm a _damn_ good cook. Drunk sandwiches can't be held against me in a court of law."

"Well, I hate to tell you, but according to Olivieri vs. Vento, they actually can."

"...Wait, really?" 

"Hey, would I make up case law just to fuck with you?"

"...Yes. Yes, you would."

"I think you've redeemed yourself tonight, anyways." Sam smirks, "Really, you'll make someone a fine little wife someday."

Brady turns with narrowed eyes, pasta bowl gripped in both hands. "Oh, no, no," he advances on Sam, backing him up into the wall. " _I'm_ not the wife here, Sammy." He thrusts the bowl at Sam, who takes it with a roll of his eyes. "Take this to the table, _dear_."

"Yes, _sir_." Sam's smirk is replaced by a startled yelp when Brady smacks his ass as he turns around.

"That's more like it, bitch."

Dinner is, indeed, delicious. Even when Brady tells him that he made this dish in honor of Sam... _pasta alla puttanesca_. Brady knows he understands enough Italian, and cackles when Sam says it's the best slut spaghetti anyone's ever made for him, and his _compliments to the chef_ for his _obvious experience_.

Afterwards, both of them work quietly on the couch until Brady dozes off around quarter to 11, and Sam rouses him to make their way to bed. _C'mon, dude, I got you to the bedroom, i'm not gonna undress you, too_. Brady rests his head on his arm on top of his dresser, _ugh, why not, c'mon i made you dinner... Fine! Just stop whining!_ By the time they're curled under the covers, Sam feels pretty good, almost as good as he had the previous week.

That doesn't last.

Of course.

It's sometime in the 3AM hour when he wakes up sweating, breathing heavily, with Brady's hands on his shoulders. His eyes are wide and he looks pale, alarmed, anxious. He's turned the lamp on the bedside table on and Sam blinks, disoriented, into the light. He absently notices that Brady must have shaken him awake, which is odd, since he normally knows not to touch a person in the throes of a nightmare for risk of getting hurt in the confusion. The second thing he notices is how he's shaking under Brady's hands, which is also weird, because the room isn't cold at all.

"...Sam?"

It's tentative, spooked, and Sam blinks at him, dazed, and sits up. He tries to summon up a small smile to reassure Brady that he's ok, everything's ok, but whatever expression makes it to his face obviously does nothing to convince him.

Brady grimaces slightly, gently places his hand on Sam's face. "Are you...I mean, I'm not gonna ask if you're ok, 'cause, that was _not_ the sound someone who's ok makes, man. But..." he hesitates, obviously unsure of what he's about to say. "I really think you should—I mean, I'd really like it if...I...I think I'd _feel better_ if you told me about it. Maybe we both would?"

Sam's not trying to be disingenuous, really, he's not, but it could be interpreted in so many ways. He knows objectively it's about the nightmare he's just been woken up from, but...what _exactly_ did Brady hear and see? Was it all just wordless screams? Did he call out for anyone, call any warnings, did his face show an unmistakeable rictus of death? Is it more than just this nightmare, since Brady's been subjected to so many of them by this point? His experiences with his sister should mean that he understands that sometimes they just _happen_ , no real reason behind them. Unless, of course...Sam's revealed more than he thought in his sleep. Or, maybe even worse...maybe Brady knows that Maura actually does have a deeper reason to wake up screaming...

He clears his throat, but his voice is still gravelly and hoarse. "Tell you about what?"

Brady just looks at him, keeps his hands on him, solid and real and patient despite his evident worry. "That...dream. All of them really." He lifts his hand from Sam's face, trails his fingers across a long, white scar bisecting his collarbone from a run-in they had one winter with a wechuge in the ice caves around Lake Superior. Then drops his hand to a pale pink puncture scar on his abdomen, from the time he was lured into a trap in the swamps of Okefenokee by a bludnik. They're just two of many that litter Sam's body. "These."

Sam can't quite meet his eyes.

"Why don't you talk to your family anymore, Sam? I know it bothers you. And, from what I've seen, you can forgive just about anything, anybody..."

Sam looks away, shakes his head silently, not trusting himself to speak. Brady's right, but in all the wrong ways. The way he is, it isn't from abuse or anything. His life hasn't been easy, and it's not entirely by his own choosing, but he's made plenty of mistakes that lead to his harm, plenty of bad choices. And as for the hurt that his family's done to him...well, most of it wasn't intentional. And no doubt he's done them worse. He'd forgive them in a heartbeat, anyways, if only they'd ask. Hell, he wouldn't even need the apology if, at any point, they decided that they still wanted anything to do with him.

He knows that he should be stronger than that, demand more respect. But he's weak.

And he doesn't really deserve respect, anyways.

Brady looks sad. Not disappointed, not even pitying, just...like he wishes things could be better; understands that sometimes they're just _not_. That's one of the things that Sam loves about him. He takes people as they come, even if he can't help them, even if they're broken. "It's ok. You don't have to tell me, I don't even expect you to. Just...you don't have to pretend everything's ok if you don't want to, alright? I get it, either way."

Sam sighs, looks at his lap, laughs bitterly. "It's not even that I don't _want_ to tell you. I _do_ , actually, which is...different. It's just..."

Brady strokes his arm comfortingly with his thumb. "You _can't_ talk about it. Or at least, not yet. I told you, I get it." He grins; a little dim, maybe, but genuine. "It's just as well. I'd make a shitty therapist, anyways. I talk _way_ too much. And I've been lead to believe by a few professors and numerous girlfriends that I don't inspire trust."

Sam smiles at him, grateful. "Nah, I think you'd do ok. Lull them into a carb coma with pasta, distract them with your ridiculous Ninja Turtles boxers, and they'll spill everything."

Brady pulls Sam so that they both laying back down, nested together; reaches to turn off the light. "Mr. Winchester, I'm going to have to ask you to not speak of these _awesome_ underwear outside of this bedroom, as they're protected under doctor/patient confidentiality rules."

"I think those work the other way around, Doc."

"Oh, you mean I shouldn't have told everyone about the Wonder Woman Underoos you wear?"

"Maybe I should introduce you to a little legal term we like to call _'slander'_."

"Hmmm... I don't know, are you gonna charge me by the hour if you do?"

Sam falls asleep with Brady draped over his back, barely keeping the lurid images of blood and bone and freckles from playing over and over on the backs of his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on this story—it ended up being a time stamp/side story to a much longer piece I'm working on. Some things are different than in canon, and while they won't impact this story too significantly, they do play a part and some of them are mentioned starting in this chapter, most notably these four things:
> 
> \- The hunting community is somewhat more closely knit than in canon. They're still not really organized or hierarchical or anything, and their communication still sucks, but they do have more contact in groups, and there are customs and rites and dialects that surround them to some degree.
> 
> \- The use of magic and native psychic/spiritual gifts in hunting is more pervasive in this world, and there's a lot more structure and ritual surrounding it. Most hunters still don't really like or trust it all that much, and don't know it in depth, but they will use charms or spells or enchanted objects when it benefits them. Kinda like the boys do in the later seasons of the show, but they're far more reluctant and hypocritical about it. And those in the hunting community that are practitioners or have innate power, especially if it's their main focus, tend to be ostracized and outcast and distrusted to a corresponding degree.
> 
> \- Sam has some background with magic use/training, but how much and how he came about it isn't entirely clear in this story.
> 
> \- Sam had knowledge of the supernatural and hunting at a much earlier age, partially due to the more codified, integrated hunter community. While he didn't have it explicitly explained to him as a small child, it was never hidden from him, either, so he just grew up with it always being known to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes the best of what he's got on hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really two chapters in one, so I may take a while to post the next one because I haven't had time to start it yet. But there's some good stuff here, I swear (finally)!

The next day dawns grim. Sam has an early class today, _Programming Methodology_ at 7:30, so Brady is still snoring into his pillow as Sam gets dressed to head out. It's one of those days the weather suits his mood, but he can't say he's grateful for it; grey and drizzly and chill. As much as he's trying, he can't ignore what he saw last night before Brady woke him up.

The dream had still been fragmented, but he'd seen more of it this time, and what he did see was a little sharper than before. The body of a man lying on the forest floor, jeans and canvas coat so soaked in blood he couldn't even tell what color they'd been. Most of the head was gone, the top missing, shredded, only the bottom half of a grizzled jaw remaining. Every time he thought of it, he felt a mounting dread that left him cold.

But the part that had him really fucked up, that was tying his stomach in knots, roiling, is what he'd seen of _that hand_ this time.

Pale and freckled. Familiar broad palm and strong fingers he knows better than his own.

Ripped off effortlessly halfway down the forearm, with a sickening crunch, by rows of long, sharp, white teeth.

He has to stop thinking of it long enough to get through the day, to get through class. He's going to have to do what he can tonight to bring the dream into sharp focus, so he can figure out what they're hunting; where it's located. Hunters aren't just going to stop hunting completely, indefinitely, without more to go on. _Just part of the risk of hunting, any hunt could be our last._

He has to make sure that what he saw is actually what he thinks he saw.

That it's _who_ he thinks he saw...

Sam shakes his head to clear it. One thing at a time. Get through class. Get through work. Get someplace where he can take the risks necessary to clear his visions up, which definitely isn't his dorm room. Or Brady's. He wouldn't jeopardize him like that. Then, if it is who he thinks it is...he can start making calls. Dad, Dean...if neither of them answer, Bobby. Caleb. If that doesn't work, one of the Arbiters, maybe. Dad didn't like them, bristled under even their scant authority, but he would listen to them in the end...

Class is difficult to say the least. He finds he can't remember anything they went over. All he can summon is blood and teeth and bone on a loop, over and over. He has three hours between his last class and the start of his work shift. He isn't sure how he was going to find something to distract himself so he won't fall completely to pieces in the meantime.

Until he catches sight of Martin while crossing Serra Grove.

They make eye contact, and he must see something in Sam's face that shows his need. Martin runs two fingers under the band of his collar on the right side, as if wiping away moisture collecting there. _The utility building near the_ _Palou substation_. Good, that's close. Thick walls; quiet. Sam rubs one knuckle under his left eye. _20 minutes_. They look away from each other; keep walking in opposite directions.

When Sam reaches the building he rests against the wall in the shadow of the doorway, as if ducking out of the misty rain for a moment. He presses his hand against the metal door; feels it has been left cracked open for him. His eyes sweep the area around him. No one is looking his way. He slips through the door and pushes it closed; locks it behind him. Heads down the dim hallway with its concrete block walls to the room at the end.

Martin leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his lip pulled in a permanent sneer where the livid, ropey scar tissue tugs his tawny skin tight. He doesn't say a word, just watches with sharp eyes as Sam sheds his clothes quickly onto the floor. When he's stripped bare, Martin surges forward smoothly and shoves Sam back against the wall, one hand on his thigh in a bruising grip, the other fisting his hair and stretching his neck out. Martin scrapes his white teeth down Sam's neck, across his shoulder, leaving a pink trail where he's grazed a layer of skin off.

Sam's breathing heavy already, cock hard and leaking, leaving a damp patch against the rough cotton of Martin's overalls. Martin swipes his tongue over the furrows he left in Sam's neck. His fingers slide from his thigh, under his balls, pressing in hard on Sam's perineum, causing a low moan to slip out of him.

"There something you need today, boy?"

"Yeah," Sam gasps out, "Please..."

Martin pulls back and looks at him expectantly. Usually he doesn't let Sam decide, but he always listens if Sam requests anything, like _no bruises_ , or _keep everything visible to my thighs, please_. Today is different. Sam's eyes shift to his clothes piled on the ground; Martin nods. Sam kneels down, fumbles inside his right boot lying on the floor, pulls the small silver-bladed knife from the magnetic clasps in the simple sheath sewn into the lining. Holds it up to Martin, handle first, like an offering. Pleading is written all over his face.

Martin looks unimpressed.

"I don't fuck around with knives. Too dangerous. Things get worked up," he shakes his head. "Gets messy real quick, cut too deep, cut somethin' that shouldn't be cut."

"I can—"

"No, Sam." His voice is firm, final. Hardly ever uses Sam's name. "Don't matter if you do, even if you shouldn't. I won't."

"Yeah..." Sam tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. He can respect limits, too. "Yeah, ok. Sorry..."

Martin looks at him appraisingly. Takes Sam's sharp chin in the grip of his hand, forces him to meet his eyes. "You need something strong, yeah? Trying to shove the world off for a while?"

Sam swallows. "Yes."

The unscarred corner of Martin's mouth twitches in an almost-smile. "How do you feel about fire, boy?"

...

Martin ends up asking him if he has something small and metal, made of brass or steel, preferably. Sam thinks, and then rifles through his battered book bag, digging up a leather cord with various pendants strung from it. Most are not suitable, symbols with potent magical properties that could cause problems if they were etched into his skin permanently. But this one...it's spiritual more than thaumaturgic, and was given to him by someone whom he remembers fondly. He only hopes Martin doesn't find it offensive. He'll pick something else, if so.

Martin looks at him with a flatly amused look. "Now, I know you ain't O'odham." He's turning the small brass pendant in his fingers, which depicts a sort of spiral, ridges of lines radiating from a circle at the center. A small figure stands at the opening at the top. 

Sam flushes; he should have known better. "No, of course not, I—I don't need to use—"

"Did you pick this up from a market in Santa Fe or Prescott or somethin'? Not bad looking, handcast and not made in a factory, at least."

"No, it was...given to me." Sam looks up at Martin, meets his eyes frankly. "By a...um, not so much a friend, a _patron_ , I guess." His smile is self-deprecating. "But also kind of a...guide, I guess? She made it for me..." Sam holds out his hand. "I didn't mean anything bad by it, I swear. It's just...the only thing I have on me that's not...dangerous, or...tainted. Bad memories, you know? But we can find something else. There's brass nuts here, I'm sure, or steel, maybe a key, that would work—"

Martin closes his hand around the pendant. "No. This'll do. It was made for you, that's enough. Good intent, no posturing. Just needed to make sure you weren't tryin' to be cute or clever. Or trying to suck up to me." He grins. "Though neither of those things seem much like you, anyways."

Sam smiles a little, relieved. "I guess not..."

Martin reaches up with his other hand, grabs Sam by the scruff of the neck, drags him to a scarred steel work table. He smacks it, the sound ringing hollowly in the large room. Shoves Sam forward. "Up."

Sam hops up onto the edge of the table. Martin crowds in between his legs, spreading them even further. His eyes are dark, almost black, all pupil. He grabs Sam's head in both hands and crushes their mouths together, as his hips grind down on Sam's crotch.

Sam whines a little around the tongue filling his mouth. Martin has never kissed him before, and _what a fucking shame._ The tongue is withdrawn and his lips are bitten, hard; they'll be swollen for hours. He can't get a breath in. It feels like he's being devoured.

It's fucking overwhelming, and on the edge of cruel, and just what he needs right now.

Martin pulls back, hands still gripping Sam's hair. He stares at Sam's flushed face, his glassy eyes. Sucks in a breath of his own. "Fuck. You've got no idea, do you?" Drags his thumb across Sam's lower lip; shakes his head. "Stay here."

Sam sits on the cold metal table, trying to simultaneously collect himself and melt into what's surging through his veins right now. He hears Martin rummaging around the tall rows of shelves.

When he comes back, he's carrying a small armful of things. Sam watches languidly as he puts them together on the table next to him. He's got a pair of needle nose pliers, and one point goes into the loop at the top of the pendant from the back, the other just at the edge of the opposite side. He tightens a thick plastic zip-tie around the handles to hold the tips secure around the pendant. There's some clean cloths. Some bottles of disinfectant. A small blowtorch.

He watches as Martin sprays down the pendant, lets it sit, wipes it, sprays and wipes it again.

Turns to Sam with the bottle in hand. "You sure?" It's asked seriously, with no judgement. But he can't hide the anticipation threaded through his voice.

"Yes." Sam nods. "Yeah."

Martin pushes Sam to lay back flat, hips and ass on the table, legs hanging off. He stands over him, looking at him like he's an eight-course meal. Brings his hand up, rubs a spot right above Sam's right hip bone. Looks at his face, hungry. "Here?"

 _You can't make yourself vulnerable like that, Sammy_ , he hears Dean say. _Can't trust nobody like you trust me; don't know what they really want_. "Yeah...that's perfect, yeah."

Martin bends down, licks the spot reverently. Sprays down his hip with the cleaner; something industrial and not meant for human skin, but it doesn't sting too bad. Wipes it with a fresh cloth. He turns, takes the handles of the pliers with one hand. With the other, he brings the blowtorch up. Carefully depresses the trigger.

At the hiss of the gas and the glow of the blue flame, Sam's breathing quickens. He's got a small puddle forming on his stomach; a drop runs down the side of his waist to the table.

Both of them watch raptly as the flame heats the brass up till it's glowing orange-red.

The hiss of the flame goes out. In the silence that follows, only broken by the rasping of Sam's breath and the loud thump of his heart that he's sure the whole campus can hear, Martin turns and meets his eyes, wets his lips. Then, his attention turns to the spot on Sam's hip that he's prepared. He carefully lines the homemade brand above his flesh, about an inch and a half away, making sure the surface is even with the planes of his body. Sam can feel the heat radiating off the metal from here, stinging already. 

"You sure you want to watch?"

"Oh, _fuck yes_."

Martin smiles fully now, wolfish, and then pushes the pendant forward into Sam's skin. The pressure he applies is steady, even; sinking slowly into the first layer of skin, and then the second. Sam's mouth hangs open, eyes wide, and he doesn't even hear the hoarse whimper-scream coming from the back of his throat as his fingers scrabble at the cold metal of the table. The sizzle and searing smell of burnt flesh only vaguely recalls memories of hunts past, he's too caught up in the sensation, the blazing and scorching heat that seems to fill him, spiraling up and out from his pelvis. He's burning.

He's incandescent.

He doesn't know how long it is until the brand is pulled away. Not long, he knows, far less than a minute, but it feels like forever. He faintly hears the clatter of metal on the floor, and then Martin's fingers swipe across his stomach, followed by his face pressed close, his tongue swiping across the wetness there.

" _Fuck_ . Came from that, can't believe you're even real, boy."

Sam's head drops back against the metal. He's nothing but a mass of throbbing sensation at the moment. Burning in his hip, burning in his ass where three barely-slick fingers force their way in. All of it so sweet and consuming that all he can do is float inside it. He knows he's making some kinds of noise in his chest, his throat, but he has no idea what he sounds like. Whatever it is, it's working for Martin. It's barely any time until he's pulled Sam's ass off the edge of the table and shoved his cock inside. He's brutal, perfect, Sam might end up with bruises on the inside of his thighs from how hard Martin's hips slam into him. His dick is hard again already, aching and twitching. Martin leans over him to grab his throat, devour his mouth again, and the cloth of his overalls rubs against the freshly burned flesh, his tortured cock. Sam wails as he spills again between them.

Martin pulls out, rolls off his condom. Places his mouth wide over the brand, careful not to touch the actual burn with any part of his tongue or lips. He bites down hard, leaving a circle of teeth marks in a ring around the maze burned into Sam's hip as he gives a final pull to his cock and paints the insides of Sam's thighs milky.

Sam doesn't remember much of what follows. Only glimpses of Martin, more solicitous than normal, cleaning up the burn with packaged wipes from an old, battered first aid kit, wrapping it in a plastic film, making Sam promise to keep it clean in his daze. He's somehow dressed, and Martin is slipping the now cool brass pendant into the pocket of his pants. 

He spreads his broad hand over Sam's cheek and jaw before he leaves. Pulls him in for a kiss that's surprisingly gentle, but no less intense.

Sam falters at the door to the hallway, turns and looks back at Martin. 

"...I'll see you soon?"

Martin smiles, just a little. "Probably not a good idea, kid. You let me do that, you'll let me talk you into damn near anything. Don't trust myself with that." His smile grows just a touch wider. "But...thank you, for that. Was.." He shakes his head. And he turns away.

...

Sam continues to float through most of his shift at work. Like there's a filmy, soft curtain between him and the rest of the world as he pulls espressos and pours americanos and plates pastries for the blur of faces in front of him. The brand still pulses painfully, deliciously, under his jeans. He can only imagine the look on his own face must be dopey and distant; Jermaine smirks at him more than once and digs an elbow into his ribs with a laugh when Sam pours soy milk all over his hand instead of in the cup.

"I'm not even gonna ask you to pull it together today, dude. Pretty good night? Or maybe morning? Both?" He wags his eyebrows at him.

Sam just smiles and looks down and wipes his hand off with a nearby towel.

It's a short shift, only 4 hours, which is good for his overall plans for the day, but not so great for his mood in the last hour. He does his best to hide his steadily mounting anxiety as the reality of what he needs to do tonight, to witness, creeps back in. More than once, he finds his hand creeping to his hip, pressing in. Not too hard, no rubbing. He doesn't have time for any more inflammation than what he already knows he's in for, or, god forbid, infection. While he may have access to the student clinic, he feels like showing them what he's sporting might earn an appointment with a counselor, at best. Plus, he'd like to see how this looks when it heals, a scar he actually wanted for once, vain as that may be. By the time he leaves, he's chewed his lower lip almost raw.

He makes a quick stop back at his dorm; thankfully Matt's not there. He knows he's got class for at least the next hour, so he merely locks the door before cleaning and bandaging the brand more securely. He then takes the false back that he built out of his tiny closet (early move in date was a help for more than one reason). After emptying the books and binders out of his bag and onto his desk, he pulls out a few things that he felt were safe and important enough to keep in his room from his cache and packs them. He takes the cord with four keys strung on it from his book bag pocket and drops it over his head, tucking it under his hoodie. Slides the false wall back into place. Pushes his meager collection of hanging clothes spread out across the rod.

He looks around the room. There's no more reason to delay, as much as he'd like to crack open a bottle and drink until he can't even remember what dreaming is. Before he leaves, he remembers to turn his phone off. Not only can he not afford the distraction, he doesn't want his route to be trackable. It's not likely, but a lifetime of paranoia can be hard to put down.

He heads down to the train station and makes his way to a bank of old, beaten up lockers at the back of the building. There's no one around, so he steps up to 3308 and opens it with the small, bright silver key on the cord around his neck. On the inside, the walls of the locker have been carefully inscribed, using a black sharpie, with sigils and phrases, all intended to both protect the contents from damage or theft, keep people from noticing the locker itself, and, across the inside of the door and jamb, an alarm symbol that breaks whenever the door is opened. He feels the key vibrate in his hand, a prick like 3 tiny thistles in his thumb. When he pulls his hand away, the key is now a tarnished black. 

He sorts through the contents of the locker. His good copper bowl, his mortar and pestle, the carved wooden box with his circle kit, and several carefully wrapped packets. _Buchu, mugwort, labradorite, moldavite, silene capensis,_ and _amanita muscaria,_ the labels read. His hand hovers over a black scrying mirror for a moment, and then he snatches it up and throws it in the bag with the rest of his items. Shuts the door, and the key is silver again when he locks it.

He takes a circuitous route to a bus stop half a mile away. He makes a few transfers along the way, and then walks the last mile, arriving at the run-down but solidly-constructed mixed-commercial use building in the industrial section of North Fair Oaks in which he leases a small unit. It's more small storage warehouses and independent manufacturers and mechanics than anything else. He's made conversation with a few of his neighbors when he'd stopped by once or twice a month to check on things. Friendly, but he does what Dean used to call ' _putting on his spooky shoes'_ when he talks to them—mainly summoning up a light aura of wild magic to unsettle people slightly, and working a small glamour that makes his pupils slightly different sizes, and makes the strands of his hair blow a little bit in the wind that isn't there.

Most of it is confidence tricks, though, the kind he learned from hunters, that have nothing to do with the supernatural. Using the other renters' names in their initial conversation, leaving them unsure if they even told them to him in the the first place (he broke into the rental office one night before he started his lease; checked out every business, memorized the IDs that were photocopied with the applications). A little cold reading to feed them back easily guessed personal tidbits. Coincidental helpfulness, like nudging a windshield sitting outside to be right on the verge of tipping when no one was looking, and then being in exactly the right place to catch it when the wind made it teeter as he walked by. Small favors, like taking care of the rats that had infiltrated Alejandro's spice-bottling setup and making sure they didn't return (and he might have been a _little_ flamboyant with symbols on the "traps" he laid down), or giving Yolanda a packet of tea that helped alleviate her arthritis, or putting a stop to the theft at Mickey's unit (and that one was nothing but a two-night stakeout and a mild beating and some intimidation)...word spread quickly that he was a _brujo_ or some kind of sorcerer.

So, he ended up with a reputation for being a little scary, a little eerie, but benevolent, and weirdly _nice_. Good to have around, and best to be on his good side. They knew him as Sean; mostly left him alone, maybe brought him tamales or a tamarind soda if they saw him around lunchtime. And Mickey would cheerfully pass him small protective charms, _from my abuela, she made it for you, said you might need it_ , which Sam found oddly touching. Definitely no one laid a finger on his unit, or even snooped around near it. He was pretty sure they even kept an eye out to make sure it wasn't messed with by anyone else, actually.

It worked out well for him. Sam had a safe-house (abandoned houses or businesses in neglected neighborhoods were harder to find within an hour's bus ride of Stanford than in other places they had stayed) that was cheap enough not to eat too much into his work money. Somewhere that he could hide out, protect himself, if something nasty came for him. Or if another hunter with a grudge sussed him out—and there were a few who disliked him enough to take his outcast status from the community as carte blanche to go after him. To fuck with him or fuck him up or try and coerce him into doing some of the more damaging or less savory workings for their benefit.

It was also a place he could do any necessary workings of his own, safely, if needs arose.

So far he'd avoided both scenarios.

Until tonight, of course.

He's made sure to arrive well after dark. It's after 10 on a Friday; he knows that no one around him will be working that late on a weekend, home with their families or out with their friends. And the building and lot surrounding it are silent, closed up, when he gets there. He's still careful, waits for 20 minutes to make sure no one's around before he unlocks both physical locks with two of the keys on his cord. He then releases all three invisible, spectral locks, before lifting the metal roll up door and ducking beneath it. He hits the tap-light near the entrance, and, once he's safely locked the space back up again, he flips the light switch. 

The room is 16 x 20. Cement floors. Concrete block walls two layers thick to block out sound and vibration from neighbors working. Mismatched plastic and metal shelves, salvaged from curbs and dumpsters and Craigslist, line the walls, packed with boxes and bins of neatly organized supplies. The walls here are even more packed with sigils than his train station locker; not only are they for obfuscation and protection of what lies inside the unit, they extend protection to the whole building and those in it. There's also sound dampening, magic- and energy-warding to keep anything from escaping, purification, and anchoring lines to some of Sam's safer and more favored power sources. The entire perimeter has plastic tubing duct-taped to the floor, filled with a mixture of salt and angelica root and wormwood. There's two scratched and nicked pine wood tables for working on. And in the center of the room, a large circle has been painted, with a deep blue milk-based paint infused with cornflower. It's twelve feet in diameter; as perfectly circular as a homemade protractor consisting of a length of string tied to the center of a weight can make it. Everything buzzes with latent energy under the fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling.

His mentor would be appalled by the baseness, the haphazardness of it all.

That makes him spitefully happy.

He gets to work immediately. At this point, he just wants to get through this. Sets up his brazier on the floor in one corner, suspends an iron kettle over it, mixing in coconut oil ( _it's cheap and it doesn't make him break out, whatever_ ), some tallow, and Abramelin oil. Once all the oils and fats have melted together, he grinds together and adds the buchu, moldavite, silene capensis. Then, when it's turned a silvery brown, he mutters under his breath, and adds the labradorite. After it's all settled into a murky lavender, he adds just a _pinch_ of the amanita muscaria—he really doesn't want to end up tripping his way through this; it's going to be hard enough as is. He lets that simmer, while he brews a tea, in a beat up electric teapot, from the mugwort and and some marigold and yarrow he pulls off the shelf. Almost an afterthought, he crushes a few tablets of melatonin into the liquid.

With all his consumables percolating, he turns his attention to the circle. Takes out his kit: the binding chalk he's made (ground up chalk sticks he lifted from a supply closet at school, elm ash, cedar dust, black salt, and a little beeswax to hold it all together), the 'protractor', sigil stencils that he cut out of stiff plastic with an exacto knife, and his foundational candles in white, black, silver, and red. He'll want a few others tonight; pulls a blue, purple, and grey off the shelf, too.

The circle-casting takes a good thirty minutes. He was always maybe a little too anal about getting everything just right for a circle, but...sometimes it's literally your last line of defense, and it both ties you to and buffers you from the power you're calling on. Sometimes there's no choice but to be rushed, but it always feels important to Sam to get it as close to perfect as he can.

When everything is done, he strips out of his clothes. He paints lines and shapes over his body with the potion, and it raises faint pinks streaks of symbols as the hot oil cools on his body and the properties are absorbed. He paints a solid circle on his left hip, and then hesitates, and does the same on his right. The brand stings and crackles with energy and pain, and it feels right. Sam's not worried about infection; his spellwork has always been sound. It's likely it will even aid in the healing.

When his anointment is complete, he pours his tea into a wooden cup. He carries it in both hands to the center of the circle. He places it on the floor as he lights the candles arrayed around him. He settles cross legged in the center, and swallows down his brew. 

He takes some deep, cleansing breaths, and then lays down on his back, his feet pointing north, his hands folded loosely over the spot directly between his Manipura and Anahata chakras. He closes his eyes; slows his breathing, slips into as much of a thoughtless, meditative state as he can. 

And wai

_It's cold. Not bitterly frigid, not like it would be in January in the northern states. But, still, likely below freezing, and his feet, shod in dark brown boots, crunch over runnels of ice and crisp, dead leaves and a thin, patchy layer of snow. Slender, dark branches snap and snag at his clothes, his leather jacket, his jeans, as he runs through the woods. He can hear the sounds of his own breathing, harsh pants, echoing in his ears. There's fear, but there's also frustration, and an iron-clad determination. And, underneath that, a thrum of excitement; an adrenaline flutter-and-wow. There's no one and nothing he can see in the forest he's crashing through, .270 rifle in hand, even though he scans in every direction._

_His legs ache, the cold air burns on the way in._

_"Dad!!" His voice is deep, a graveled roar as he shouts into the winter woods. "Where the fuck are you?"_

_There's a crack just behind him, and he spins around, but it's just a dead branch he'd run into, falling to the ground._

_He stands still, listening._

_There's not a sound but for his own breathing and the pounding of his heart in his chest. "Godfuckingdammit!"_

_He bends over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath._

_"Just an Amarok, Dean. Just a big fuckin' wolf, how hard could it be?" He snarks to himself. "Can't get very big someplace like Missouri, anyways, can it? Too warm, right?"_

_He stands up, wipes the back of his hand across his dripping nose. "Fuckin' rookie mistake..."_

_He's just starting to calm down, get his energy back, when there's a strangled shout in the distance, off to his left. Every sense jumps to attention, and he takes off without pause in that direction, legs pumping over the frosted ground. After two or three blurred minutes, he can make out a dark figure, hunched over between the trees._

_"DAD!"_

_His father looks up, face pale, left arm torn and shredded, held bloody against the side of his body. "Dean! Stop!" His voice is harsh, strained, a bark. "Stop right there!"_

_He stops immediately, gun pulled up, eyes scanning, but all his attention focused on his father. "Dad—your arm! Fuck, we've got to get you out of here!"_

_"No, Dean, you've got to go NOW! This thing, it's too big, this caliber won't even—"_

_And there's no pause as an enormous dark grey shape flashes out of the trees behind his father, muzzle snapping down with a sickening crunch over his head. It shakes its massive, grizzled head. John's skull snaps between its teeth like candy; only his lower jaw left, hanging stubbled and bloody from his neck as his body slumps to the ground._

_An anguished wail is torn from him, grief ripping hooks through the raw flesh of his throat._

_"NO!! NOOOOO FUCK NO!"_

_He brings the rifle up, fires. Fires again, and again, and again. The wolf-creature just turns its head and snarls at him, enraged, barely injured. Its eyes flash yellow-white in the thin winter light, It turns its gigantic body, almost as tall as he is even only at the shoulder, and paces one step forward, growling deep and loud enough for him to feel in his gut. He stumbles backwards, hand raised up in front of him, horror and grief and anger and regret surging through him, and the beast springs into motion, leaping for him._

_A gaping maw, full of huge, sharp teeth, closes over his forearm and snaps his hand off. He barely has time to start screaming from the pain and fear before that mouth is closing in on his face and he feels the world rending, along with his flesh, and then he gurgles, choking on his own blood, and_

Sam is ripped out of sleep with a mangled sound that's part sob, part scream. He only has time to halfway sit up, can't even turn over, before he starts vomiting; a dark purple, glimmering, viscous liquid, entirely unnatural, that spills all over his chest and stomach. He manages to writhe onto his side, curls up, before another wave hits him and he heaves what feels like more fluid than his body could even hold onto the concrete floor.

His stomach keeps spasming for minutes, even though he's completely emptied out, nothing left to give up. He lays on his side on the cold concrete, arms over his face as he gasps and pleads _nononononono_ over and over again. He can't get up. He can't move.

He can't waste another minute lying here and doing nothing.

He scrambles, panicked, on to his hands and knees. Manages to crawl out of the circle to one of his work tables, pulls himself up onto weak and shuddering legs. He grabs his book bag; it takes three attempts, with his numb, trembling fingers, to get the zipper open. When he does, he just turns it upside down, the contents spilling and scattering over the table. He grabs for his phone, flips it open. Turns it on, waits for it to connect, _c'mon c'mon you fucker_. He ignores the notification for unopened messages and voicemails, fumbles his fingers over the buttons before he collects himself enough to stop, consider.

Dad first.

John's in charge. He may hate Sam, may be loath to listen to anything from him, but he's the one that will ultimately make the decision to abandon the hunt, not Dean. Sam is aware that Dad has always seemed to resent Dean's devotion to Sam in the past; so if Sam goes directly to Dean, and Dean has to try to persuade Dad, he's likely to write it off Dean's conviction as a lingering soft spot for Sam. Sam's got to at least _try_. If Dad won't answer, leaving a message will be almost as good. He'd understand that Sam wouldn't contact him unless it was crucial, life or death. That should help in making him see the truth of it.

He dials Dad's number with shaking fingers.

And hears the _beepbeepbeep_ of a disconnected number.

 _Fuck_ , but he should have expected it. John changes numbers, sim cards, phones, fairly regularly; they all do. Helps keep them off the radar, keep them from being tracked. They all have back up phones, though, with numbers only known to select handfuls of people. John especially; last time Sam checked he had five. His main, general use phone, which has obviously been swapped out. One specifically for his sons to contact him. One for those he trusted, or at least collaborated with, in the hunting community. Another for communication with school officials, hotel managers, victims, suspects. And a last one for use with law enforcement and other official contacts (hospitals, government departments, professional consultants, and the like). There may be others, but his sons always had access to at least these five, so they'd have multiple channels to try and get a hold of him, no matter what happened. _You always got a way of reaching me, boys, if you need me. Just don't give 'em to_ anyone _, you hear me?_

Sam dials the number for the phone John keeps for him and Dean exclusively.

Disconnected.

Sam's stomach starts to sink. Sure, John had cast him out, but Sam had thought that he'd at least have kept that avenue open to him, in case of any critical danger that needed to be shared, like the situation they were currently facing. Or maybe even...maybe if Sam himself had been hurt or threatened, something he couldn't deal with on his own; he'd thought his dad would at least...

He shakes his head. He's got no time for recrimination or self-pity right now. So John is trying to send a message. Sam considers it delivered. He'll tuck his tail between his legs and call one of the other numbers. He doesn't give a shit about his pride in the face of what he's seen; doesn't have any left, anyways, standing here, trembling, naked, freezing; still-faintly-glowing, sticky vomit cooling behind his balls and in his bellybutton.

He makes his way through the numbers, and with each one, he grows even colder.

 _Beepbeepbeep_ .

Either John changed all his phone numbers at once, after Sam left, or he's blocked Sam himself completely from contact.

He's not sure which would be worse. Six of one, half-dozen of the other, he supposes.

He squeezes his eyes closed. Recites, in his head, a litany he's used before for calming, collecting himself, bringing his emotions under control. It works a little, just enough to focus him back on what's important right now.

Dean it is, then.

His stomach twists as he punches in Dean's number. He doesn't know what he'll do if Dean's blocked him, too. Call Bobby first, he guesses; he's _pretty_ sure Bobby wouldn't block him. Get the warning passed on. Then go find somewhere to curl up alone and die quietly, like a sick, stray cat.

He's relieved in ways he can't even examine when he hears Dean's number ring. _Once, twice_...it rings seven times before clicking through to his voicemail.

 _"This's 'Dean."_ A pause, then a long beep. 

Sam's just opening his mouth to leave a message, when he hears the beep of incoming call waiting. He panics and punches over to the other call before even looking at the number, all kinds of scenarios running through his head. Dean saw that he missed picking up his call and dialed him back immediately; Brady or Matt's been hurt or threatened because he was careless with the dream workings he just did and something malevolent caught his scent and followed it back to where he sleeps; John somehow knew he tried to call him five times, and realized it might be important...

"Hello, Sam."

Sam's mouth snaps shut. It's none of those scenarios.

It's somehow worse.

"I know you're there, Sam, and you don't want to speak to me." The voice is cultured, calm, reasonable. "But, you have to, really."

"I don't have to fucking do anything, Gideon." He sucks in a breath, tries to calm himself. "Not anymore."

"Well, that may be true. To some degree. But I think in this case, you'll _want_ to."

There's silence from Sam's end.

"I'm only calling to offer my help.."

"Are you getting dementia? I know it's been a few years, but remember how I said I never wanted to talk to you again?" He chokes out a strangled, bitter laugh. "Last time I checked it was still _never_."

There's a long-suffering sigh from his former teacher at the other end of the call. "Sam, I appreciate your sentiments, but we don't have time for your dramatics."

"...OK, fuck you, Gideon. I'm hanging up n— "

"Have any interesting dreams lately, Sam?" The voice interrupts smoothly.

"What the fuck do you know." Sam feels a blinding fury overtake him. It feels both wrong and good; he'd only ever allowed himself to release real anger with Gideon once. "NOW, Gideon!"

"Tchhtt." That sigh again. "Probably less than you do. But enough."

"How?"

"It doesn't—'"

" _How_?" 

"I'm not _watching_ you, Sam, if that's what you're thinking. I've kept my promises." He manages to sound both exasperated and fond at the same time, which makes Sam itch. "We were connected, Sam, quite intensely, for some time. Sometimes it leaves threads. Echos. Especially when those connected fit together so well. You know this, though. You just don't like it." He blows an impatient breath out. "And I keep a pulse on the hunter community. It's kind of my _job_."

"OK. Yeah." Sam does his best to ignore Gideon's little reminders and digs about their _connection_. He's not wrong about the difficulty in ever entirely dissolving a connection, even if Sam wishes he was. It's not important right now, anyways. He's got to swallow his feelings and take the help offered if he wants his Dad and Dean to come through this alive. "So, how are _you_ gonna help? Because I can't even get a hold of them."

"I'm going to have Pamela contact them. She's already agreed. John trusts her, and she won't mention either of us."

"Yeah...OK, yeah. That could work." Sam takes a deep breath, and somehow forces out, between gritted teeth "...thanks."

"It's nothing, Sam. Though...I can't say you won't owe me. You know how things need to balance out."

 _Of fucking course_ . "So, um, will you let me know when you're sure? When it's been averted? You can just...text me, maybe?"

"Certainly." There's a pause, maybe hesitant; unusual for self-contained, calculating Gideon. "Sam, you know I'd rather not have you relive it, but I need as much detail as you know and can remember if you want to save them."

"Yeah. Alright." Sam closes his eyes. Summons up his recall of the dream, and it's like reliving his own memory. Every sensation and image in vivid technicolor. He suppresses his nausea. "Well, it's Missouri, not sure exactly where, but probably somewhere in Mark Twain Forest..."

...

Sam stumbles home around 6 AM the next morning, after a quick scrubbing under the freezing cold, salted, purified water in the camping shower he'd rigged up over the drain in the corner. It had left him shivering. Or maybe it was just everything about the last 24 hours or so that's left him feeling so hollowed out and cold. He'd cleaned up the space after his ritual, not as meticulously as usual, but well enough that he wouldn't worry about it too much later. He'd left everything that wasn't mundane at the unit, not having the energy or will to make the detour to the train station. Luckily, the buses hadn't been too crowded at this early hour on a Saturday morning, but he didn't miss the side-eyes and nervous looks shot his way, nor the wide berth left in the seats around him. He just couldn't bring himself to care. They were lucky; at least he'd remembered to put all his clothes back on right.

It isn't until he's slid his key into the lock and turned it, with a click that seems to echo, that he realizes that he'd returned to Brady's and not to his dorm room.

He pauses, debating whether to go in and let Brady see him in this condition. He doesn't even let himself acknowledge the fact that _home_ had come to mean _Brady_. He's so completely emotionally drained, one more terrifying thing to face might completely break him. That's a freak-out for another time. Just stands there, blank and indecisive and barely even present, one hand on the key in the door.

So when the handle turns and the door pushes open about six inches, Sam startles. 

"Where the _fuck_ have you been, man? Jermaine said you seemed pretty fucked up when you left work yesterday. I tried texting, tried calling; straight to voicemail." Brady's angry voice drifts into his awareness. "You can't fucking _do_ that shit, Sam. You haven't exactly been acting too _stable_ recently, you know?"

Sam's immediately torn between shame and resentment at Brady's diatribe. What right does Brady have to be mad at him over a few missed calls after the shit he's dealt with over the last day? But as Brady pushes the door open more, forcing Sam to stumble back a few inches, Sam catches the lines of worry etched on his face. Guilt wins out.

"...I'm sorry."

Then Brady looks up at him.

"...Sam?" Brady's eyes are wide as he takes him in. The breath he takes in sounds as unsteady as Sam feels right now. "What the _fuck_ is going on? What..."

Sam doesn't say anything, just drops his eyes to the ground. He's proud of himself; barely even flinches when a warm hand drops tentatively onto his arm.

"Jesus Christ, you're _freezing_." 

He keeps his eyes down, focuses on just staying upright; feels himself being pulled gently inside. The door closes and locks behind him. Sam spaces out a little, feels distant and severed from himself, but he can't completely stop the burning shame that fills him as he's guided over to the couch, sat down so so carefully, like he's made of something breakable ( _which he can't deny, really_ ). A blanket is draped over his shoulders, tucked around him. Like a fucking toddler who can't take care of himself.

He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels Brady drop on the couch next to him, well-known heat against his side, making him shiver even more at the contrast. A hand lands on the back of his neck, fingers sliding under the curls there; one of Brady's favorite places to touch him. Even the familiarity of the feeling isn't enough to more than marginally calm him.

Then he feels the fingers grip him harder. Brady's strong fingers dig in, not massaging, just restraining him, grounding him. Pressing in _just_ past the point of pain. They hold there, unyielding. Sam takes a shuddering breath, unspools a little.

"Sam." The voice is firm, but not unkind. "Look at me."

Sam opens his eyes and turns his face towards his friend, unable to resist. Not really wanting to.

Same sandy blondish hair, but tangled, instead of it's normal lightly gelled and artfully tousled style. Same blue eyes, staring at him intensely, but shot with red and underscored with dark circles, showing none of their usual clarity and playfulness.

Guilt, on top of the shame. Sam swallows, tries to drop his gaze again.

Brady's other hand comes up to grip his chin, keep his face up, keep their eyes locked. Not quite as bruising as the grip on his neck, but still hard enough to settle Sam some.

"Are you..." Brady licks his lips, but his voice doesn't sound anxious or shocked anymore. "No. I _need to know_ if you're alright."

Sam's response falls out automatically. "I'm fine—" He stops. Searches Brady's face. Crumbles a bit. "No. _No_...I'm not ok."

"You don't have to tell me everything right now. Or ever, really. But you gotta tell me enough so I know how to help you."

Sam opens his mouth, closes it again. Swallows. Inhales deeply. Pushes images from his head: teeth and blood and bone in frozen forest, flesh and magic and tears in a warm, fire-lit room. "I..." He clears his throat. He'd love to tell Brady everything. But he'd love to _keep_ his friend so much more. "I, um, heard something. About my family. That they were...that there was something, someone, out to...hurt them. Maybe worse."

Brady's inhale is a little sharp, but his face remains placid, receptive. "...fuck, Sam. Do you...are they...?"

"I...when I found out, yeah, they were ok, as far as I know. But, I mean, I had to let them know, had to warn them, try and keep them safe, you know?" He feels suddenly uncertain. Brady doesn't think very highly of Sam's family. "...Right?"

"Yes, of course." Not a trace of doubt in his countenance. "You gotta take care of your family."

Sam nods, a bit of relief flooding in. "I, um, had to get more information, more detail before I told them. Wasn't easy, but it worked..." He fights his rising gorge back down. Misses the sharp concern that flashes across Brady's face. "But when I tried to call to let them know..." His voice trails off, throat tight and difficult to push words through.

Brady's hand grips harder on the back of his neck. The pain flares, and Sam's eye drop closed as calm floods him. He's grateful, so grateful for Brady and his willingness to cater to Sam's depravity and weakness. He doesn't really even look disgusted. "John...my dad...he's blocked my number. Blocked any way I have from reaching him." There's a muttered expletive from Brady. _There's_ the disgust. "Dean...well, I got Dean's voicemail, at least. But I wasn't able to leave a message..."

"Has he called you back yet?"

"No, um...No. He hasn't." Some of the grief and hurt he thought he'd worked through twists in his chest.

"What do we need to do?"

"...What?"

"To find them, get a hold of them." Brady's eyes look off in the distance; his _thinking face_ , as Sam's gotten to know. "Any idea where they might be? Even generally? We can hire a PI or something. My dad's old college roommate used to be a bondsman...well, he was a bounty hunter, to be blunt. Does private investigative work now. Rob can find _anybody_ in, like, a week. At least that's what he says, and he's never been too concerned with trying to impress _me_ , so I don't see why he'd be lying. Dad'll be pissed I'm bothering him, but, eh, who cares."

Sam just stares at him in confusion and maybe a little bit of awe. Dumbfounded.

Brady focuses back on Sam, catches his look, and flushes. "Sorry, is that, like, stupid? Overkill, or something?"

Sam blinks. He can't think of anyone in the world who'd be willing to help him so unconditionally right now. He feels tears pressing at the backs of his eyes, suddenly. "No, Brady, that's not stupid at all." His voice is soft, sincere, hopefully holds all the gratitude he feels, knows there's no way it can. Relief washes over Brady's face. "It's a great idea, but...well, maybe it would be overkill for most people's families. Winchesters, though..." He shakes his head, harsh little laugh. "I'm not exaggerating when I say, if they don't want to be found, even the FBI couldn't find them." His smile is a bit bitter, cynical. "And they don't _ever_ want to be found."

"Oh." Brady looks disappointed, forehead creased. "So...what _can_ we do?"

Sam's filled with a rush of love for his friend. No way he deserves this kind of devotion. "I can't even tell you how much I appreciate that you even _asked_ that."

Brady's look is honestly confused. "Why wouldn't I want to help you?"

Sam shakes his head. "Just, believe me when I say it means a lot to me." He manages a small, shaky, but genuine, smile. "And, we don't have to do anything. I...managed to get a hold of someone that can help. Who will help, I guess. An old...associate. He knows how to get in touch with them, and get them to listen, even."

Brady slides his thumb so that it rests in the hollow under his lip, squints at him. "...why does that sound so... _bad_ ?"

Sam's exhaustion catches up with him suddenly. Every part of his body aches, deeply and intensely. Even though it's warm in here, and he knows he's warmed up, too, he still feels cold and shivery. His head is throbbing with the promise of an oncoming migraine. He feels sick, at the end of his endurance.

He sighs. "It's not. Not really. I wouldn't call it _good_ , either, though. He'll get the job done, he's good at that." He hopes he doesn't vomit all over Brady, his couch. Hopes that if he does, it doesn't come out looking alarmingly _weird_. "It's just...someone that I'd said I'd never work with again. Swore I'd never even _talk to_ again if I had any choice in it. But I guess I've never been great at keeping promises." Another sigh. "And...his help isn't going to come without strings attached, I can bank on that."

"As far as I can tell, the only one you're not good at keeping promises to is yourself. And I'm not talking about the kind that you shouldn't be making in the first place." He removes his hand from Sam's chin, brushes some of his hair back off his face. Looks at him searchingly. "Did he hurt you?"

"Today? No. Just a phone call, that's all. Unpleasant, but..." He shrugs. "He didn't do anything from so far away."

"Then what...?" Brady makes a vague gesture, denoting Sam's overall condition. He's got no real injuries, but he knows he looks like seven kinds of hell.

"Honestly, I am ok, Brady. Just, exhausted. Mostly...emotio—mentally. Haven't had real sleep in...well, about 24 hours, which isn't that bad, really. Just had to get a lot done in that time."

"...Are you in danger?"

"Nah." He shakes his head. "No, no more than I usually am."

Brady raises an eyebrow. "Okayyyy... Don't start thinkin' we're not gonna talk about _that_ one later." He stands up, using the hand still gripping Sam's neck, pull, encouraging him to stand up, as well. "For now, first, a shower—no, don't give me that look!—you still feel cold, and, frankly, dude, you stink. You smell like...well, I don't even fucking know, but it is not fucking pleasant, and you're _not_ getting into my bed like that."

Sam lets Brady manhandle him down the hall and into the bathroom. By this point, he's so drowsy and sluggish, he doesn't really notice that Brady has stripped both of them until he's standing naked under the hot stream of water, Brady standing close behind him, equally naked.

He's so tired, and the water feels so good, as do Brady's strong hands rubbing his back and shoulders down with his expensive body wash, that he decides not to even question it. 

Even when Brady turns him around to get his chest and stomach, and pauses, seeing the blackened flesh, surrounded by angry red, within a ring of teethmarks, of the brand on Sam's hip. He doesn't say anything, just traces his finger in a circle around the mark, careful not to touch it.

Brady looks up at Sam with a complicated expression that he doesn't have the capacity to unravel right now. But there's an obvious question there.

Sam just lowers his hand to cover Brady's, not moving it away, but just stroking along his fingers. "Later...?"

Brady just watches him for a moment longer, with that look Sam can't interpret, and nods. Goes back to washing him.

God, the water feels so good on his skin, his muscles.

Brady feels good, too.

It's a good thing he doesn't even have the energy to get hard right now. He takes a moment to gather some of the suds dripping down his body, reaches behind him where Brady can't see. He really did feel dirty, inside and out.

He's so lost in just letting everything wash over him, that he doesn't even question it until Brady guides Sam's head to lay down on his shoulder. He holds it with one hand, Sam's face pressed into Brady's neck, and reaches for a bottle from the rack, There's a click of a cap opening, and then Sam feels something cool squirted on the back of his head, the scent of something minty and herbal fills the steamy shower.

"Uh...what are you doing?"

"Washing your hair, fucker." He feels the strong fingers in his hair, working the shampoo up into a lather. "It's _gross_."

His cheek rests on Brady's shoulder, nose and lips brushing against his throat, as he digs in with the shampoo, working the suds deep, fingers dragging across, massaging, his scalp. Sam can't contain the deep groan that's pulled out of him.

Brady laughs. "I bet you just _love_ when they shampoo you when you get your hair cut. Bet they love it, too, you layin' there squirming under their fingers."

"Dunno. Never had an actual haircut." Sam mumbles. Brady delves deep into a particularly sensitive spot near his Atlas joint. "Mmm..." he moans contentedly.

"Such a fucking hedonist, I swear, under all that spartan bullshit. No one would ever guess." Brady chuckles. Sam just sinks further into his shoulder with a tiny sigh, completely boneless now. But he somehow finds a way to melt a little more when Brady gives a sharp tug to his hair, heedless of the even louder moan he makes. Doesn't even hear when Brady murmurs, "Kind of a masochist, too, hmmm?"

He's barely standing on his own as Brady dries him off with one of his big, fluffy towels, making sure to comb back his hair with his fingers after he's rubbed the water out. "Fucking ridiculous mop. Should let it dry all stupid and fluffy; serve you right."

He looks down with half-lidded eyes when he feels Brady applying something cool carefully over his hip. Little yellow tube in his hand. Neosporin.

"I love you, Tyson Brady." Brady's fingers pause on his skin just for a second. "Y'r such a mom."

Brady caps the antibiotic, wipes his greasy finger on Sam's chest— _hey!_ —slaps him, not as hard as usual, on the ass.

"Well, _Mom_ says it's time for bed. So let's get you there before you end up on the bathroom floor. You're too fuckin' big for me to carry all that way."

"Y'could do it. Got faith in you."

Brady hustles him under the sheets, goes to shut the blinds completely to darken the room. "And it's Saturday, so you're sleeping as long as you fuckin' need to."

Sam twitches, cracks open his eyes to watch Brady move around the room. "Stay with me...?"

Brady crawls in behind him, pulls the covers over them both, closes his arm around Sam's ribs, pulling him as close as he can without crushing him. "Duh." He breaths into Sam's neck.

...

Sam has no idea what time it is when he wakes up. The room is dark. The clock is on Brady's side of the bed, and Brady's got him in a death-clutch still. Sam feels better, definitely, but not great. Still drained, still brittle.

It feels good to have Brady's warm body pressed up against his back, though.

"You're awake." Brady spits out some of Sam's hair that's crept into his mouth. "Blech. Man, how does it get _every_ where?...Are you awake, actually? I thought you were a few times, but you just stared at me and then fell back to sleep."

"I think so..."

Brady reaches down and pinches his ass; he doesn't know why he yelps, he should be used to it by now. "Never hurts to be sure."

Sam grumbles, pulls the pillow over his head.

"C'mon, lazy. It's almost 8."

"...In the morning? It's only been like an hour?"

"Uh, no. 8 _PM_. More like over 12 hours?"

" _Fuck._ " Sam pulls the pillow off, sits up. Is immediately dizzy, his hand going to his forehead where a sharp pain shoots through it. "Ow."

"Woah, there." Brady puts his hands on Sam's shoulders to keep him from tilting over. "I was only kidding, cowboy. You don't have to get back on the horse yet if you're not ready. You need to sleep longer, you sleep longer. Don't have anywhere to be, right? No work, cause I'll call them if you do..."

"No. No work or anything." The room is settling down just a bit, but his head still aches. "I think I just need some food?"

"I can bring you something."

"Breakfast in bed?" Sam smiles a little. "Aww, Brady, you're such a romantic."

Brady scoffs. " _Dinner_ in bed, bitch. And only because I don't need you denting up my nice walls with your giant head when you inevitably fall over."

" _So_ considerate." Sam drops his hand, looks around the room. No light bursts or shimmering, no numbness in his fingers. Probably not a migraine then, just a _regular_ shitty headache. "I think it might do me some good to get up for a bit. Stretch my legs. Have like a handful of ibuprofen. Drink a gallon of water. You can still serve me food and take care of me in the kitchen."

"I'll slave over the hot phone and order you the finest Thai, princess. You can kick your big feet up on the couch and look pretty for me." 

"Hmm. I dunno. That's a lot to ask of me."

"Pffff. You do it in your sleep."

They make it to the living room without incident. Sam doesn't say anything about whether Brady might be hovering. Honestly, he appreciates it. If he wasn't so used to having to function at low power, fucked up from a hunt, he probably would have stumbled a few times. 

He pops the five Aleve Brady gives him, chases them down with the entire glass of water. Hears Brady call from the kitchen, "Panang curry, right? Extra spicy?"

"Uh, let's just do the regular tonight." His stomach is still feeling a little ravaged from the previous night.

"Good call."

"Are you—"

"Yes, I'm getting Massaman, and, yes, we can share. I'll get mine bland and non-spicy, too. _Fine._ "

Sam smiles to himself on the couch, feels something unwind inside him. A little bit of hope rearing its head. The familiarity and comfort, the _normality_ of it. Maybe things will be ok, after all.

Dinner is nice. Quiet, They sit on the couch, close, Brady always having some part of him touching Sam, reassuring him, or maybe himself. Sam doesn't end up being able to eat much at all, mosytly rice, a little chicken, but what he does get down makes him feel better. Less ephemeral, brittle. More real.

He doesn't remember what they watch, but Brady notices around 11:30 that Sam's eyes are closed more than open. He cajoles him off the couch and into the bedroom. When Sam's stripped down to his boxers and under the covers and stretching out, Brady stands hesitantly at the side of the bed.

"Uh, will you be ok if I stay up for a while? I didn't have nearly as much catching up to do as you did and I don't think I could—"

"Dude." Sam levels a look at him. "I will be _fine_. Honest. You don't gotta babysit me, as much as I appreciate it. Go. Watch some Buffy, or like, polish your boat shoes, or whatever you gotta do."

"My boat—oh, fuck you, Winchester. I don't even know why I bother sometimes." He tries to sound offended, sounds amused and fond instead. He calls back as he leaves the room. "And Buffy is _hot_ , you heathen."

"Spike's hotter," Sam mutters, but Brady's already left the room.

He rolls over, pulls the covers over his shoulder. Sees his phone, lying on the bedside table next to him, plugged in and charged. Must have been in his pocket when Brady undressed him last night.

Tired and close to sleep, but unable to ignore it, Sam unplugs his phone and powers it up. Opens up his missed calls and voicemails.

Several calls, messages from Brady, dropping off around 2 AM. Sam frowns, feeling the guilt bubble up again. He doesn't have the heart to listen to them right now; has to believe that Brady's forgiven him if he's fed him, fucking tucked him in. 

Bathed him...

Sam shifts under the sheets, pushes the thought from his mind. There's no way he'll have the energy to do anything about it if he gets worked up now. It'll just make it harder to fall asleep.

Scrolls down through the list. More from Brady. 

And then one that makes everything stand still.

Dean.

Sam thinks he might have stopped breathing for a bit. He's not sure how long.

The call was just a little under a half-hour ago.

Sam's fingers itch to hit the redial button, but there's a voice mail, too. He should listen to that first. Definitely.

His finger hovers above the phone, suddenly uncertain. He's not sure if he's ready for this. He's never gone this long without talking to Dean, hearing his voice. 

He presses the phone to his head as the message starts to play.

" _Sammy!!_ " Dean's deep, growly voice fills his ear, and Sam smiles faintly. He sounds drunk, unsurprisingly. " _Callin' me on my birthday, huh? Didn' expect that, I gotta say._ " 

Sam feels a twist of that guilt again. It's not like he'd ever forget Dean's birthday, it's just...with everything else, it wasn't the first thing on his mind.

" _Saw you couldn't bother leavin' me a message, though. Guess it wasn't too important, then. But I shoulda guessed that. You got better things to do, I bet. Huh, Sam? Better_ people _to do, right? Don't need your degenerate big brother cramping your style, holdin' you back, do you?_ " 

Sam feels the cracks inside him widen. God, Dean sounds so bitter, so hateful. Sam can't blame him. _He_ did that. Broke Dean's heart. Took the only actual love he'd ever experienced and spit it back in his face.

" _Well, I won't keep ya from your frat parties or your nerdy fuck buddies or your pretty little girlfriends or whatever you got goin' on there. And I got shit to do, too, so, ya know, don't need to bother callin' back. Maybe you can hang up on me next year for my birthday, again, if you want. Remind me of all the exhaustin' bullshit and drama I don't have to put up with anymore with you gone. That would be a pretty awesome gift, actually. Make it a new fuckin' tradition!_ " 

There's a pause, Sam hears, faintly, in the background, the occasional hiss-swish of car tires on what sounds like a rain-wet road. Click of a lighter, crackle of inhale. Dean's smoking again.

" _Oh, yeah, before I forget. Take a look at your messages. Sent you a picture of the birthday gift I got m'self this year. Think you'll 'preciate it._ " 

There's a click, then silence. The message ends.

Hands shaking, full of foreboding, he switches over to his text messages. Sees that there are a couple of messages from Jermaine. Multiple messages from Brady. Then two more. Both from Dean. The first is an image.

Unable to stop himself for anything at this point, he numbly opens the message.

Motel room bed. Rumpled once-white sheets. A body lying belly-down across it. Tall, slender. Long legs, spread open. Broad shoulders; tan, flushed skin. No scars, unblemished. Can only see the back of his head where it's resting on his crossed arms. Dark mass of glossy, wavy, disheveled hair.

Dean's pale, freckled hand, broad palm and strong fingers he knows better than his own, reaching in from off-camera, pulling open one side of the round ass to show a swollen pink hole, glistening, trail of cum.

Sam stares at it for way too long.

Because he can't possibly punish himself enough, he closes the photo eventually, so he can open the next message.

_\- figured it out when u left. ones as good as another right? aint nothing special out there_

Sam doesn't know when the tears started. He drops the phone with numb fingers, it lands on the sheets, face open to Dean's message. He swipes it off the bed with a yell, violently enough that it smashes into the wall with a thunk.

Buries his face in his hands, hunches over till his head almost touches his knees. Fingernails digging into his skin, like he's trying to pull off his face.

Strong fingers wrap around his wrists, pull hard, yanking them away before he can do any more damage to his face. He's pushed back, unfolded, back pressed against the headboard, wrists pinned to either side of his head.

"Sam! Fuck it, Sam, what's going on? What happened??" Brady in front of him, above him, knees pressed on either side of his legs. Sam just snarls and tries to jerk his head to the side, look away, only succeeds in smashing his cheekbone against the dark wood.

"Sam, _STOP IT_." Brady orders. Sam goes limp in his grasp, head hanging down as he chokes on quiet sobs. Brady pulls his arms up, holds both wrists just above his head with one hand, brings the other down to lift Sam's head up and look at his face. Presses his thumb into Sam's cheekbone where it's swollen and red already. Sam gasps and pushes into the touch, savoring the pulse of pain that spreads out from it. "Yeah, that's gonna bruise."

Sam closes his eyes, doesn't want to see Brady seeing how pathetic he is.

"Sam, tell me what happened." That firm voice again. Sam likes it, it's easy to know what to do when he hears it.

He inhales, shuddery. "I..." He shakes his head, unable to collect his thoughts. "Dean..."

"...He's not...is he?"

Sam laughs, choked. "No, no...not dead. Not hurt, either. At least...not by...anyone else."

His wrists are squeezed together in that grip, bruisingly tight, and it's so, _so_ good. "If he's not dead, and he left you like _this_ , then he's an asshole."

Sam hiccups, faintly. "Yeah, he is...sometimes. But not unless he's gotta be. And not the only one." Sam looks at Brady, looming above him. "I'm _so much_ worse."

Brady's face is hard and impassive, like stone. "Oh, I very much doubt that."

Sam shakes his head. "You don't know..."

"I know _you_." He gives Sam's wrists a shake. "I know _they_ don't deserve you. _He_ doesn't deserve to get _this_."

"No, you don't—"

"Sam, shut up and _listen_ to me."

Brady leans in and shuffles forward, so that he's everything Sam can see right now. As he does, his thigh presses down on Sam's hip, igniting his brand. The pain blazes up, rolling through his abdomen and groin, and he gasps, head falling back, eyes rolling up into his head.

He expects Brady to panic and scramble back, apologizing. Instead Brady drops his hand from Sam's face, bringing it down to the brand, pressing his thumb in _hard_.

"Fuckfuck _fuck_ ..." He arches up, trapped between Brady's hands, above and below, dick now leaking as steadily as his eyes.

"Yeah, _fuck_ , that's how you want it, isn't it, Sammy?" Brady's voice rumbles in his ear. "Fuckin' painslut, _aren't_ you, bitch."

Sam's ripped in two as the words seep in. One part of him, the dirty, ugly, corrupt side, revels in it, thrums and pushes up into Brady's hands. The other, the needy, insecure, clingy side, cringes back, afraid that Brady's disgust is just being overruled by his determination to take care of Sam, no matter what.

"Sorry, 'm sorry..."

"What do you have to be sorry for, Sam?" He drags his teeth over Sam's neck, following the path that Martin took just yesterday. Erasing it. With his own mark. "Unless it's that we weren't doing this months ago. In which case, that's on both of us for bein' so fuckin' stupid."

He blinks at Brady, gasping at the burn of the runnels he left, and goes still at the look on his face. 

It's the one he's hoped for, longed for. For months now. Never expected to get. Sharp, hungry; _starving_. Gleam of his teeth showing between his lips. Pupils swollen, thin ring of blue around all that black.

No disgust.

Brady _wants_ him. Wants him even like this, base and degraded, weeping and writhing under him, humping up like a bitch in heat every time Brady touches him, hurts him.

Maybe especially like this.

_Brady wants this._

Sam's caught in one of those moments of stillness, when it feels like everything that's gone before and everything that'll happen after will change, be transfigured by what happens right now. Resonant with possibility; liminal.

God, he wants to get fucked _so bad_.

Brady smiles, because he _does_ know Sam,. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna fuck you." He drops Sam's wrists, wraps his hands around his waist and pulls him down, with a thump, flat on his back. "But only after I'm done doin' whatever I want to you."

Fresh tears press from Sam's eyes; he's not sure why. He isn't sad at all about this. But tears have always been a mystery to Sam, an aberration to Winchesters; he's the only one that ever cried, where anyone could see, at least. 

Aberration that he is. 

Brady looks down at him with fascination and what looks like awe. Runs his thumb under Sam's eye, pushes it past his lips, pressing it into his tongue. "God," he says, reverent, filthy, "You're so fucking pretty when you cry."

Sam would have hated himself later for not remembering the details of how Brady kisses him the first time, if the feeling of it, which is pretty much permanently etched into him, wasn't so perfect, so consuming. All he can feel is the mouth on his, the tongue, the utter possession. Brady letting him know that all other claims on him are now null and void. 

He has a new owner.

Sam's left spinning out for a moment when he's released from Brady's mouth, and by the time he's come back, Brady's got him stripped of his boxers, body dragged halfway down the bed, and is pushing his legs apart to kneel between them.

He looks down at Sam spread naked before him and licks his lips. "Where to start, where to start."

"I dunno, don't care," Sam slurs. "You just better start _soon_."

Brady's grin is feral. "Still a bratty bitch, I see." He leans over and bites into the scant meat of Sam's thigh hard enough that the imprints of his teeth won't be gone in the next few days. "Good, wouldn't be as fun otherwise."

No surprise, Brady is just as tactile during sex as he is all the time, at least when it comes to Sam. His hands are running over every part of him within reach, like he needs to check out his new property _right now_ , everywhere. He places three fingers on the spot he bit, and bears down. Sam's lips pull back from his teeth as a strangled noise escapes him.

"Hmmm..." Brady looks curious, delighted. "I like that. You need more of those." He leans into the other leg, pushes his knee up even further. Takes a mouthful of flesh about a third of the way between groin and knee, and Sam would swear he's trying to tear it off and swallow it. He definitely breaks the skin, just a little, but just enough, too, and there's a little spot of blood on his lip when he sits up and looks at Sam.

It might be the hottest thing he's ever seen.

Brady might have an oral fixation, because Sam gets three more bites, one on the curve of each shoulder, his hair brushing against Sam's face and hands gripping Sam's biceps, and one more on his left pec. That one's the only other one that makes him bleed a little.

Brady sits back up and grins at him, a smear of red on his teeth, and Sam gives in to the urge to surge up and grasp his face and lick it off. This leads to another bout of intense, devouring kissing, and Sam makes certain to pay attention to the little details this time. The way he grips Sam's jaw in his hands, fingers splayed, digging in a little, thumbs on cheekbones, moving him where he wants him. The way his tongue shoves its way into his mouth, wet muscle filling him, thick and long, stroking the roof of his mouth, his teeth; strong, but not stiff or probing. It's wet, but not sloppy, Brady tastes like that cinnamon toothpaste he uses from the co-op and faint undercurrents of ginger and lemongrass and coconut milk. He likes to suck on Sam's tongue, dragging it out of his mouth into his own. He pulls back every so often to bite, sharp, at Sam's lips, but dives right back in after a few seconds like he can't help himself.

Definitely an oral fixation.

Brady pulls back with a slow suck of Sam's lower lip, teeth dragging and scraping.

They're both breathing a little heavy when he's done.

"Fuck. I wish I was better prepared. Just wasn't sure..." He scrunches his nose, then smiles. "Well, we're just gonna have to go shopping soon. In the meantime..."

Sam watches as Brady scrambles off the bed and opens his closet doors. He rifles around; pulls a thick black leather belt off his belt hanger and _who has a whole hanger for belts?_ and saunters back to the bed.

"This'll have to do for now." He folds the belt in half, grips the buckle. "Don't worry, I've practiced a bit."

"Not worried. Trust you." Sam breathes. "...pretty sure I'd like anything you do, though."

"Dangerous words, Sammy." He cocks his head, studies Sam, legs still spread out all slutty and wide. "Hmmm, I really want to get at that ass—I've wanted to get at it since I met you, you have _no_ idea—but I wanna see your face when I do this right now..."

"Have both if you want, hmmm? We've got plenty of time..."

"That's why I keep you around, Sam. So damn smart." Sam rolls his eyes at him. "And fucking gorgeous, even if you _are_ an impudent little bitch."

"...Not so little." Sam grins dopey and teasing.

"I _see_ that." He grabs Sam's ankle and tugs. Sam crawls over to the side of the bed, Brady pushes and pulls him till he's lying on his back, legs hanging off the bed at the knees, again spread wide, Brady standing between them. It's the kind of deliciously vulnerable position he loves, and he's surprised to find that his trust in Brady doesn't dilute the electrifying thrill he feels like this at all. "Oh yeah, that'll do just fine..."

Brady grabs Sam's cock in a tight grip and strokes the head, getting the pad of his thumb all wet and shiny. "Hmmm, you're eager for it, aren't you?"

"Yes." Sam decided to go for a deliberate provocation; a riled-up Brady is pretty much always a fun Brady. "But, I mean, if you don't want to get around to it tonight, that's fine, just—"

_THWACK._

There's a deep, thudding slap as Brady, with no warning, brings his arm back and swings the belt down across his left thigh viciously with a flick of his wrist. It's a deep, warm pain, not stinging like a crop. Sam's skin already starts to weal up nice and red, and his words are swallowed up in a moan.

"I _was_ gonna warm you up first." Brady smiles. "But, don't ever let it be said I never give you what you want."

He looks at the other thigh, must decide it's lacking symmetry. The belt is brought down just as ferociously. Sam wants to paw at the burning flesh, run his fingers over it and revel in the stripes he's earned, but he keeps his hands at his sides, gripping the sheets like a good boy.

Brady takes it a little easier, though not by much, in the subsequent lashes he lays on Sam's thighs. Stretching it out; the strike of leather against skin, Sam's panting breaths and pitchy grunts filling the room. He doesn't know how long it lasts, but by the time Brady stops whipping his thighs, his own breath coming heavy, Sam's skin is bright red and crossed with welts where the edges of the belt caught him hard, and everything between his legs feels fevered: hot and over-stimulated and swollen. And _perfect_.

"Please?" Brady's already got him begging.

Brady, the bastard, shakes his head. "I'm not _nearly_ done with you yet. Turn over."

By the time Brady has him arranged to his liking, Sam is on his hands and knees, face and shoulders pressed into the mattress, back curved. Ass in the air, knees stretched wide. 

Completely spread open for Brady to enjoy.

"Jesus Christ." Brady's voice is hushed and fervent.

It's at that moment that a warm, stinging rush of embarrassment washes over Sam. This is his best friend; the one that makes fun of his hair even while he's playing with it, that conspires with his boss to switch the name tag on his apron to 'Princess' or 'Bitch' or 'Sue', the one who thinks nothing of scratching his balls or farting in front of him ( _what, rich kids fart too, haven't figured out how to hire someone else to do it for me yet_ ). Sam has felt comfortable and safe with him for months. Accepted.

And here he is, presenting, his asshole on display. Begging for it, not even caring what _it_ is, as long as he's being used. Degraded. Adored.

Brady runs his finger down his crack, over his hole. Uses his thumbs to pull apart his cheeks, and just stands there looking at Sam's exposed asshole; in no rush, apparently. The seconds tick by. The humiliation intensifies, and he finds himself squirming with the sharp pleasure of it.

"Dammit, _be still_ , Sam." Brady's hand cracks down hard on his cheek. "I'm not done here yet."

"...think you ever will be?"

"Nope." One of the thumbs sneaks away, comes back wet. Saliva, from Brady's warm mouth. " _Never._ Wanted this for a long time now. 'S perfect." Thumb presses against him, rubbing at his rim, tugging at it, mapping it out. Pushes it in, barely at all, lets it slide out. Does it over and over again, just a tiny bit deeper each time, feeling the flex and suck of that tiny pink hole. Sam feels like Brady's having a whole conversation back there, one that he himself is just an accessory to, extraneous. It turns him on so much. He feels his balls pulse. "Now that it's mine, I'm gonna make sure it's used all the time. Hate to see a perfect thing ever goin' to waste."

He lifts his thumb, spits, wetness clinging to Sam's hole. Before it can slide away, the thumb is back, pushing the slickness in. It doesn't stop with the tip this time, keeps up the steady pressure, sliding home. Past the knuckle, all the way up to the base. A whimper comes out of both of them. Brady doesn't fuck him with it, just leaves it there, feeling Sam throb around him. "Yeah, gonna have somethin' buried in here all the time. Gonna get my tongue, my fingers, my whole fuckin' hand in there some day. Gonna have you sit on my cock while we study, not allowed to move, you'll just keep it warm." His index and middle finger slide down, start rubbing; firm, pulsing pressure on his perineum. His thumb can't reach Sam's prostate from here, but Brady's still _inside_ him, and his fingers are working it from the outside. "Gonna fuckin' put all kinda things inside you, see what you can take, then make you take more. You got a dildo? Don' matter, we'll get one, we'll get a dozen. Gonna fuck you, fuck you on the table, the counter, the balcony, spread you over everything in this damn place. Fuck you in every classroom on the whole damn campus. Let everyone watch. Decide who gets to take a turn. You're gonna be the school slut, but for me, only for me, I'm the only one that gets to decide what to do with you, and you'll do it all for me."

Brady leans in and licks around his thumb, trails his tongue over Sam's cheek, and then bites down into the meat as hard as he did on Sam's thighs. The combination of his demeaning words, the steady, though muted massage of his prostate, the tease of fullness in his ass, and the pain of Brady's teeth sinking into him does it. Pushes his worn-out, on-edge body right into the free fall of an orgasm all over Brady's egyptian cotton sheets.

He doesn't let himself fall forward though, as spent as he is. Brady hasn't given him permission, and he's still impaled on his thumb, anyways. 

"I'd say I'm pissed that I didn't get to see your face, but I'm not even mad. Fuckin' perfect." He slides his thumb out. "Don't move, though. I'm still not done with you. Kinda good that you blew, actually. Now I can take my time and by the time I'm ready to fuck you, you'll be ready to go again."

Brady smooths his hands over Sam's ass, grabs a handful on each side. "Goddamn, I mean, I already knew, but how is this so perfect?"

Sam hears him pick something up off the floor. He gets no indication until he hears the swishing of the leather cutting through the air seconds before the belt lands on his ass and he cries out.

Brady attacks his ass with the belt with the same meticulousness that he applied to his thighs. Steady, firm, alternating sides and laying a nice cover from the top down to where it meets his legs. Doesn't ignore the sides. Avoids his brand. Sam hears him talking the whole time, but he's too far submerged to follow what he's saying. There's gonna be no way Sam will sit comfortably this week. He'll be squirming all through classes. He can hardly wait.

Sam's drifting in a warm, cozy cocoon of pain and subjection by the time Brady pulls one cheek aside and brings the belt down the center of his ass, right on his hole. He's not expecting it, the pain so bright and intimate that he lets out a howl before he even realizes what happened.

He hears something clatter to the floor, and then he's being gathered up, flipped over onto his back. Brady's getting undressed, pulling his pants off with a frantic gleam in his eye, motions frenzied, almost feral. 

"I _really_ need to fuck you now." He snarls.

He takes the time to yank open the nightstand drawer, shoving things out of the way, spilling them on the floor. He flips the top off with his teeth while he's trying to finish unbuttoning his shirt _(one of Sam's flannels)_ with his other hand. Sam would laugh if he wasn't so impressed with the sheer force of need rolling off of Brady. It's almost rabid, Sam wouldn't be surprised to hear him growl right now.

Brady gets his shirt off, and far too much shiny lube spilled over his right hand, and he's standing over Sam again, eyes gleaming. His non-slick hand is grabbing Sam's tender, throbbing thigh and pushing it up and back against his stomach. There's no gentleness, no caution, just three slick fingers pushing their way in as Brady stares rapt at Sam's face.

"I know you ain't too chaste, Sammy. How the fuck are you so tight?" The way Brady fingers him is maddening, unlike anyone that's had Sam before. He's not just just opening him up, though he's doing that intermittently, he's not just finger-fucking him, he's not even just stroking Sam's prostate. He's exploring, communing, running his fingertips against Sam's walls, pressing in. He's like a blind man reading a book, trying to learn something unseen by touch alone. His eyes switch back and forth between Sam's face, murmuring to himself, making note of his reactions to what Brady's doing, back to where his fingers disappear into Sam, feeding his own hunger. He keeps coming back to Sam's prostate, massaging it; switching from fast strokes to slow; deft, straight lines to firm, heavy circles; sometimes not moving at all but just pressing down while Sam breathes through it.

Sam loves it all.

He's fully hard again by the time Brady pulls out with a small, slick sucking noise. As he grabs Sam's right thigh, to push it up and back to match his other one, Sam realizes that Brady has finally shut up. Totally quiet, totally focused, he's lining his dick up like it's the most important thing he's ever done. Sam swallows back a flood of saliva; Brady's cock is beautiful, thick and long and curved just a little upwards, Sam knows it will scratch his itches just fine.

He can feel himself stretching around the head of Brady's cock, the bite and sting of it, the slow grinding heat of it. Brady drives in deliberate and steady; when he's got Sam impaled and pinned open underneath him, he only takes a moment to savor it, to lock eyes with him, and then digs his fingers into Sam's flaming thighs and starts fucking him with a brutal, savage pace. Everything from his waist to his knees is blazing with sparks of pain, pleasure. He's already so fucked out and over-stimulated, but Brady doesn't care, just keeps plowing into him like he wants to rip him in two. Sam's beyond thinking, he can just stare up at Brady, sweat-soaked, skin flushed red, teeth bared, savage and possessive. Little _uhn uhn uhns_ push out of Sam's slack mouth. Everything is rising static, taking him over, filling him up, the only thing he can feel is Brady's cock as he clutches around it, like that's all he is right now.

When he comes again, he whites out, the world washing away for an endless minute. He filters back in slowly, Brady's balls still slapping against his sore, red ass. Sam has never felt so content, at least until Brady stutters, and with one final, punishing slam of his hips, fills Sam up.

Brady drops Sam's legs, drops his body over Sam's, tilts Sam's chin back and kisses him. It's oddly sweet; drowsy and slow and dragging as he licks and sucks Sam's lips. He's still buried in Sam, softening finally, but both of them seem loath to move.

Finally, with a sigh, Brady disengages, both his mouth and his dick. "C'mon, let's get up on the bed. We fall asleep like this and y'r gonna be even more sore in the morning, princess."

"Doesn' soun' so bad." Sam mumbles.

Brady rolls his eyes. "Ok, well, _I'll_ be sore, and I'm not a masochist at all, bitch."

"Mmhmm. Y'kind of a baby when you don' feel good." Sam says as Brady cajoles and pushes him onto his side of the bed, slides a pillow under Sam's head, slides in behind him.

"You're gonna pay for that." He wraps one arm around Sam, pulling him into his usual position, little spoon to Brady's clingy, gropey big spoon. "But not tonight, cause you fuckin' wore me out."

"Yeah..." Sam sighs happily. "...we _are_ gonna be all gross an' crusty if we don' clean up, though."

"Well, _you_ will." There's a smirk in Brady's voice, but his hand slides down Sam's back, in between his legs. Fingers rub through the sticky slick there, gather it up, push it back into his hole, rub it around his rim. Sam feels swollen and sore but can't stop himself from pushing back to try and take Brady's fingers in deeper. "I wiped my dick off on your shirt already. And anyways, I like you like this."

"...You serious? Wanna go again _now_ ?"

"Nope. No way I even could." And he must mean it, because he doesn't let Sam fuck himself on his fingers, just keeps playing with his ass like it's his favorite toy. "But, y'know, I mean, this _is_ mine and all. And I like the way it feels. Told you earlier, wanna have somethin' in you all the time. That mouth, too. Make you shut up and let a man sleep now and then with a cock in your mouth, maybe." The glide of his fingers is lazy; mellow and unhurried and not even to the second knuckle, no more than one at a time. Just idly playing with the most sensitive part of Sam right now, like it doesn't even matter. "Could fall asleep just like this."

Sam's in love.

"Y'r obsessed." He slurs, instead.

"Yep." Still that slow glide in and over his hole. "Totally your fault though. You created a monster. I wasn't _quite_ this...aggressive, before I met you."

"Mm. Dr. Tyson an' Mr. Brady. Breakin' hearts in th'streets, tearin' up asses in the sheets." There's a brief but sharp pinch of his rim. "Ow. Didn' know y'had it in you, though, such a gen'leman by day."

"Ha. Idiot." He sounds happy "You're playing a dangerous game, Winchester."

Sam relaxes completely into his arms, into the feeling of Brady around him and inside him. Owning him and taking what he wants without trying to break him.

It's nice.

"Was made for dangerous games..."

"Hmm." Brady's free hand reaches out and taps off the lamp. Settles into the curve of Sam's back, fingers still moving inside him like they belong there. "I dunno. Pretty sure you were made for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always feel a kinda uncomfortable with leaving in little things that aren't quite believable or accurate, like text and call notifications being listed oldest first. But, it works for the story and I can apologize here, though I doubt anyone cares but me. :P
> 
> And I can't tell if this story is getting too much into the details and extraneous characters or not, so if anyone has strong feelings about that, let me know. I can't promise I can reign it in and focus exclusively on the main plot, but I think I could try to be less circuitous...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam knows that some trips are better than others, but you can never drive away from yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought with me a bit more than I expected-it took me on a bit of a detour, but I didn't really want to cut anything once I'd written it. It's also a half-chapter, the second part is mostly written but might take a little longer to edit. Shouldn't be a whole month this time, though!

When Sam wakes up the next morning, the first thing he notices is not the body pressed up against his; no, he's pretty used to that by now. It's not even that he's sore all over, some of the pain sharp and bright, some of it sitting low and under his skin all rich, some of it the ache of overstretched muscles; no, he's woken up hurting far too many times in his life, and most of the aches he's feeling right now feel pretty damn nice.

It's that his thighs are stuck together.

He shifts his legs, feels the skin pulling as dried come flakes and peels apart. "...gross." he mumbles. "Uch."

He hears Brady snicker behind him, and he's not even mad, because, really, isn't this everything he wanted? He smiles, relaxed and content, despite the various vicissitudes of the past few days. But there's an expectation, forms have to be maintained. He jabs Brady in the ribs.

"Ouch! Sharp elbows, bitch, watch it."

"No laughing at me, then. _You're_ not the one with your asscheeks glued together." 

Brady's laughter breaks out bold and bright. "Damn straight!"

Sam flips over and rolls on top of Brady, pinning him to the bed. He digs the tips of his fingers threateningly into Brady's sides, where he's ticklish. "I said no laughing, or you'll pay for it!" Brady holds his hands up in surrender. "This is _your_ fault, anyways, asshole."

" _Yeah_ , it is."

"What the hell is _that_ look?"

"What look?"

"The one you just had on your face, when you said that."

"Oh, _this_?"

"...Yeah, _that_."

"That's my sexy leer."

"...I don't think any part of that statement is even remotely accurate."

"You're not turned on?"

"I'm _traumatized_. I may never be able to fuck you again."

Brady looks at him in mock horror. "Nooo, what have I _done??_ I take it all back!" He reaches for Sam's head. "D'ya think if I just shook you hard a few times, knocked that tiny brain around in your giant head, you'd forget the last few minutes? I mean...it's worth a try, considering the stakes...hold still, bitch!"

The resulting flailing wrestling match on the sheets ends up with Brady lying on top on top of Sam, one hand buried in his hair, as they make out, slowly feeding on each other's mouths. It's lazy and sweaty and hot and laced with morning breath and utterly perfect. Sam's not sure how long it goes on, but Brady's lips are swollen when they pull apart.

Brady grins at him stupidly. "I can _do_ that now."

"Yeah, you can." Sam's smile is likely equally as stupid. "You wanna do anything else...?"

Brady stares down at him. "Well, yeah, of course, but... _damn_ , boy. You're insatiable. Like, you could barely stand up on your own yesterday, I had to basically spoon-feed you—"

"That did _not_ happen."

"—and put your underwear on for you—"

"...ok, _that_ did happen."

"—and then take them off of you again—ow, don't hit me!— and then fuck your brains out, and you're all ready to go again."

"...Are you complaining?"

"Oh, hell no."

"Good." Sam snakes his leg around the back of Brady's.

" _But_..." 

Sam sighs, throws his arm over his eyes dramatically. "It's ok, Brady. I understand. You know, I hear 65% of men suffer from erectile dysfunction, so it's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm sure, being in a family of doctors and all, you could find something to help you with—mmmph—"

Brad's hand clamps down hard on Sam's mouth. "You're just rackin' em up, aren't you, Sammy. Gonna have to pay for all that sass later. Oh, don't think I can't feel that smile, like that isn't exactly what you want." He slides his hand from Sam's mouth down to his throat, not squeezing, but just resting around it. "Like I was saying, I'd love to fuck you senseless right now, but I've got plans for us today—" Sam opens his mouth, "—don't say it!—plans that _do not_ involve us spending all day in this bed, unfortunately. Which is what will happen if you get me started right now. Also, you totally pulled that ED statistic out of your ass."

"What kind of plans?"

"I'll tell you if you get out of bed and take a shower." Brady extricates himself from Sam and stands up. "Oh, come on, now, no pouting! Pffff, how am I supposed to resist that look? Foul play, man."

"Then come back to bed." Sam smiles brightly.

"...you're really ok with leaving all that nasty, flakey, crusty, dried come all over your ass and balls and stuck to your leg hair and—"

"Ugh, fuck you, fucker, _fine_." Sam grumbles as he rolls out of bed. "But you better have coffee ready for me when I get out of the shower."

"...wait, we're not gonna share?"

"Nope. 'Cause if we get in that shower together then it'll just lead to the same thing as staying in bed." Sam smirks. "And where will your precious plans be then?"

Brady huffs, throws his hands up theatrically. "Hoisted by my own petard!"

He's muttering under his breath as he leaves the room and Sam smiles to himself. Nothing's changed, and everything's changed. He feels like he should be scared, should be worried about all the inevitable ways he's going to fuck this up, but...he can't seem to dampen the buzz suffusing him. Brady's seen...well, not the worst, Sam's pretty sure no one alive has seen how truly fucked up he can get, and he'll do what he can to avoid inflicting that on anyone...but Brady's seen him broken and low, glimpsed how far Sam will chase his depravity and obsessions, despite how hard Sam tried to spare him that. But...he's not running yet. And he's not family; he doesn't _have_ to love Sam. There's no obligation, no compulsion. He actually _wants_ what Sam has to give, somehow.

What more could he ask for?

He's limping as he heads to the shower, and he can only hope there are more days ahead that start off this good.

....

Sam had been so impressed by the fact that Brady has somehow convinced Melissa to let him borrow her car that he forgot to ask where they're headed.

"Seriously, she loves this thing more than De—well, I mean, basically she, like, has to run a credit check before she'll give you a ride to the store. And she's letting _you_ drive it? How the fuck did that happen?"

Brady's scoff and "Uh, cause she _adores_ you, idiot? Like, thinks that sunshine and flowers come out of your ass." He glances at Sam, seeming honestly surprised. "Are you not aware of this?"

"What?" Sam throws Brady a very skeptical side-eye. "I doubt that, and, anyways, it's not _me_ she lent it to." 

"No, but she also wasn't gonna let me borrow it until I told her it was to take you...somewhere.."

They're blowing by the 280 exit on Sand Lake Road already, "Hey! Where are we going, anyways? You said you'd tell me if I got out of bed."

"...and I will. When we get there." Brady grins at him. The sun glints off his white teeth.

Sam, narrow-eyed, "No, that's not how that works."

"Well, technically, I never mentioned any time frame on telling you anything. Your fault for not reading the fine print, Mr. Pre Law."

"...really? You're gonna try and go all terms and conditions on me? Cause, I can debate this shit all day, Doc." He pokes Brady hard on the bicep. "You'll forget what side you're even arguing. I'll know everything within a half an hour."

"Well, if you're willing to wait a half an hour, then we can just forgo all the arguing. We'll be there, and you won't have to put the screws to me. Deal?"

"Hmmm...only a half an hour?"

"Well, more like 45, maybe 50 minutes."

"...you sure? Cause I feel like next you're gonna tell me it's actually an hour."

"Well..."

Sam throws his head back, laughing. "I knew it!"

"It's only the second place that's over an hour, I swear!"

Sam smirks, " _Over_ an hour?"

Brady huffs. "First stop is 50 minutes, cause I'm taking you the scenic route, bitch, and you better appreciate it. Second stop is about another 40 minutes from there. So, like, an hour and a half total. But not all at once." He looks at Sam, suddenly seeming a little unsure. "Is that ok? Not too much driving for one day or anything?"

Sam smiles at him, reassuring. "Seriously, dude, it's fine. I was just fucking with you." He looks out the window at the evergreen hills, blue sky rolling past. "Actually, it's kinda nice taking a bit of a road trip. I spent so much of my life in a car, it's been kinda weird just walking everywhere. With the occasional bus. I'm used to all-day, all-night drives. Sometimes we'd go days without stopping for anything but gas and to piss." Sam rests his fingertips on the window. "Is it weird that I kind of miss it?"

Brady hums. "No, I don't think so." Sam looks at him, somewhat surprised to see that Brady seems to be giving his rhetorical question serious thought. "I mean, I don't know all that much really about what your life was like before college. I've gathered a little bit—I know you lived a lot of places, and I know you guys didn't have a lot—you lived pretty rough. But I didn't realize you traveled so much; like, all the time. If that's what you grew up with, of course you'd miss it. We all get homesick sometimes."

Sam blinks, his eyes suddenly feeling a little warm and full. He keeps his eyes trained on the trees, tall and proud, streaming by outside. "So...you don't think it's weird? Growing up like that? Like, living out of a car, cheap motels, the kind of shit apartment you rent by the week...sometimes squatting?" He swallows. He hasn't opened up to anyone at Stanford this much about his past, not even Brady. It's not so much that he's ashamed of it, really, or that he's trying to be someone different (though, if he's honest, he really kind of _is_ ), but, he spent so much of his life on the outside, never quite fitting anywhere because he didn't _come from_ anywhere. _Sam, why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself, where you're from?_ Countless schools. He tried a hundred different answers to that question. None of them ever seemed to really work. They always seemed to know he just wasn't one of them. A freak. He'd watch their faces close to him. Hear the whispers behind his back. And sometimes they wouldn't even bother whispering, or waiting until his back was turned.

He hadn't wanted to experience that kind of rejection here.

The look Brady gives him is entirely without pity, or judgement. He just seems curious, interested in what Sam has to say, in Sam's life. In _Sam,_ himself. That still feels so weird to him. 

"Weird? Nah. It's definitely different. At least to middle-class America. But, like, a lot of the world's got nomads, you know? And, I don't know. You're one of the most interesting people I've met, so maybe it worked for you, either way."

"...huh."

"What?"

"No, I just...that's refreshingly non-judgmental." He glances at Brady. "I mean, not weird that _you're_ not being judgmental, you're not usually, or anything. But pretty much everyone else has been."

"What are you talking about? I'm a judge-y bitch and you know it."

"Uh-huh." Sam hides a smile. He turns his gaze back out to the towering forests passing them by. "I don't know if it worked for me so well, anyways. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm pretty fucked up."

"Sure, I noticed. I just _like_ it."

Sam doesn't bother hiding his grin this time. "...bitch."

"Hey, that's _my_ line!"

The rest of the ride is just as smooth. Brady asks him some questions about his travels; nothing too close to the bone: places he’s been, which ones he's liked, which ones he's hated. If he'd been to Brady's home city of Seattle, _sure I have, full of pretentious assholes if I recall_ , Brady's smirk, _oh, you must have met my parents, then_. Sam tells him they've actually only been in the city twice, once when he was really young, though they've been through the PNW at least half a dozen times. _You really don't know how many times?_ with a raised eyebrow, _eh, not off the top of my head, but I could tell you if I sat down and counted them out._ Sam admits he really liked what he saw of the city, loved the wharf, and that the underground was fascinating (he doesn't mention the shifter they were hunting there). Brady crows that Sam can't refuse next time Brady asks him to go home with him during holidays now. Sam concedes his defeat, smiling.

Every time he shifts, there's a surge of warm pain in his thighs and ass. His brand still throbs, too. The sun streaming through the windshield warms his skin, and spreads over Brady's tan skin like honey. Sam hasn't felt this kind of road high—blacktop ribbon of Skyline Boulevard spooling out from under him, easy talk and teasing, destination unknown—since he and D—

Well, for a long time.

Not even the redwoods towering above _(hah, something you haven't seen yet! we're totally coming back and doing the tourist thing sometime)_ can distract him from sneaking glances at Brady's face, his hands on the wheel. Spine loose and fluid against the curve of the leather seat, eyes clear, skin unscarred. Happy. Content.

Despite what he said about the familiarity, it doesn't feel like Sam's world. At all. He's a trespasser here, an invasive species...but apparently a welcome one, for now.

And he's good with that, for as long as it lasts.

.....

They turn onto Main Street in the small coastal town of Half Moon Bay _forty-eight minutes, what did I tell you?_ after they left Stanford. Low pastel buildings with white trim, the occasional terracotta roof peeking through, shaggy, bright-green cypress trees lining the sidewalks. The pedestrians are a mainly a mix between the california-rich, in the kind of schlumpy-khakis-and-plain-shirts that speak of wealth (especially once you notice their glossy hair, manicured hands, and the t-shirt's fine stitching and lack of label that tells you it costs closer to 100 bucks than it does 10), and the more pragmatic owners of local farms with the type of jeans and shoes made to hold up under outdoor work. Sam suspects they are nearly as rich as the other residents around here, though; not much corn and tobacco farming here. There's a sprinkling of the sun-bleached hair and sun-browned skin of die-hard surfers, and the low-wrinkle poly fabrics of tourists, too, but not too many, this time of year.

It leans towards quaint; a cute town with some history, but definitely a different kind of place altogether than a lot of the small towns Sam and his family had swept through for cases. He could probably find a few ghosts holed up here, maybe even one or two of them cantankerous, but he doubts they often get the malevolent, murderous type more prevalent in many of the harsher areas of America.

Still, he wouldn't bet on it. He knows as well, perhaps better, than anyone that evil can push up through cracks anywhere, and everywhere.

Sometimes he feels like it's far, far easier to find than virtue.

He pushes grimmer thoughts back into the crevices of his mind as Brady carefully parks Melissa's car on the side of the road. They get out in front of a small building; light-colored brick, red-and-white awnings, flower boxes under the windows.

"The Main Street Grill?"

"Yeah, I thought you might be a little hungry, what with your 5 bites of rice and sliver of chicken last night."

"Oh, come on, I ate more than that."

"That weird little flower they cut out of a carrot doesn't count. I keep _telling_ you that. You're not supposed to eat those! _No one_ eats those."

" _I_ do. I like the texture." Sam smirks and shoves Brady with his shoulder. "This place looks nice."

"It is. Well, I mean it's nothing fancy or anything. Doesn't look like much and is kind of, like, worn down, a bit, but the food is amazing and the staff is great. I came here with my family when we came down for orientation last year. My parents bitched about the outdated decor— _"Tsk, cheap vinyl and tacky formica, the true face of American design"_ , but even they couldn't find anything else to complain about." His smile is more wry than bitter. "Some people go by Michelin stars, I go by Brady Contempt."

Sam glances up at the restaurant. If this is what Brady considers worn down, what would he make of the diners Sam grew up in; with flecks of old food caked on the laminated menus, old grease casting a yellow tint on the walls and floors? Where cheap vinyl was to be expected, but finding a seat without a crack running through it that pushed sharp, curling edges through the back of your jeans was a rare treat? Where you could get a dime bag or a blowjob behind the building if you didn't feel like pie after your meal? He shakes his head and starts following Brady inside, when he's brought up short by something he definitely didn't expect to see today.

_Shit._

Scratched into the brick, above the door. You wouldn't notice it if you didn't know what to look for.

Hunter signs.

Simple symbols made of lines, shapes, squiggles. Easy to identify once you learned them; able to communicate vital information quickly with a single glance. Not too dissimilar from the hobo signs of the Great Depression, though very different in execution, so as not to be confused with each other in the wild.

_Hunter owners, hold your tongue, clean place, warded, some are known, no work, supplies nearby, medic nearby._

So a business owned by hunters, and some of the workers are hunters or hunter-adjacent, too, but not all of them. Don't talk hunting openly, so it's a civilian-focused business. And don't do any kind of transactions on the property, though they have connections in town that will help if you're injured or need to find gear. The building is safe, both free of anything supernatural or magical, though it's warded as well. Don't hunt here, either, as they likely take care of anything that shows up nearby.

Sam swallows. This could get tricky. It's not _likely_ he'll run into someone he knows, he always kept to the outskirts as much as he could, even more than John did. But, still, if someone recognizes him...

They wouldn't be likely to out him in front of Brady, but everyone that works here that's part of the community would know in short order. And, just because hunters tend to be loners, doesn't mean they can't also be a bunch of gossipy bitches. It's possible word could spread outside town, too.

Right now, Dean and Dad are the only ones who know where Sam is, where he's going to school. Sam would like to keep it that way. Most of the community doesn't really know him (outside of the general notoriety of the Winchester family) or care about him, but this is supposed to be his shot at normal. A chance to cut himself out of hunting, cleanly and with finality. He really, _really_ doesn't want to cross the streams.

Brady pauses in the doorway and raises an _are-you-coming_ eyebrow. Sam lets a smile slip over him and saunters in after Brady.

Though the place is busy, it's not completely full, and they only wait a few minutes before they're led to a booth by the windows. Sam settles down into the (rip-free) cornflower-blue vinyl seat across from Brady. The simple black-and-white menu is laminated and sparkling clean. Much of the food is standard diner staples, but little touches give away that it might be less standard than most. More fresh fruit and vegetable options, real maple syrup. Chorizo and linguica in some dishes, speaking to the area's hispanic roots. Sam's quick glance around the restaurant doesn't reveal anyone he recognizes, but that doesn't mean anything. Only part of the kitchen is visible through the pass-through behind the counter.

"Your waitress'll be out with you in just a minute. Is there anything I can tell her to bring you guys to drink to start?" The fresh-faced hostess smiles prettily at Brady.

"Coffee. Lots and lots of coffee." Brady's smile is lazy, and also very pretty. Sam rolls his eyes. How does he keep getting stuck with guys that are catnip to the waitstaff of the world?

"Sounds good." She grins and takes off towards the back.

"I saw that look." Brady smirks. "You ain't got nothin' to worry about, darlin'."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sam sniffs, pretending to be absorbed in his menu.

"It's ok. Not all of us can have—" Sam glances up in time to see Brady sweep his hand in a gesture around his face, "—all this."

"I know," Sam fights to keep the corners of his mouth as flat as his tone. "And I've been meaning to give you my condolences."

Brady kicks Sam's shin under the table. "Bitch."

He's giving him that fond, sly smile, with the half-lidded eyes that Sam always had to convince himself didn't mean Brady wanted to eat him alive.

Now he knows that it means _exactly_ that.

Sam returns his heated, teasing look, but, by the tingling across his neck and cheeks, he knows that he's blushing, too. Brady's grin spreads wider, more gleaming teeth, in response.

"Ahehmmm..."

Both of them look up at the waitress standing over them at the end of the table; Sam with some embarrassment, Brady with some amusement. Fortunately, she looks amused, too, obviously having no misconceptions as to what's going on with their mutual eye-fucking. Brady looks even more entertained when he notices Sam's fluster.

She leans forward to flip the ceramic mugs in front of them and pour some coffee with a bright grin. "Are y'all havin' a good morning, you guys?"

Sam feels a chill wash over him, and his stomach drops. Her face looked a bit familiar, but her hair is copper-penny red now instead of dark blonde. It didn't click until he heard that voice. Kind of smokey, low, sexy. Appalachian accent laced through it.

_Shit._

Maybe she won't recognize him. It's been a long time, and he's at least 6 inches taller than when he knew her.

His luck has never been that good, though.

"Do you boys have any questions on the menu, or do you—" She does a double take as she straightens up and places the carafe on the table. She cocks her head to the side, squints at him like that will bring him into focus. "...Sam? Sam Winchester?"

"Sophie?" Sam musters up the smoothest smile he can plaster on. "Damn, it's been a really long time!"

"You remember me!" She smiles at him, warmly. "Yeah, it sure has been; lots of years and far, far away."

Almost 5 years, if Sam recalls correctly. He and Dean had met her at a hunter Gathering their dad had dragged them to, one of the ones that seemed to pop up organically every few years, often around an area teeming with an unusual amount of hunts. They were usually small, no more than 20 hunters, some of them staying for weeks or longer, some just popping in for a few days before moving on. Informal, especially compared to the more organized Meetings, which were 6 years apart and widely attended.

There hadn't been any others their age there. All three of them teens, Sam just barely, Sophie and Dean only a year apart at 16 and 17. Despite the gap in their ages, she was always chill with Sam, none of the mocking or annoyance the few other hunters' kids he'd met had always seemed to direct at him. He'd found out later she'd lost her little sister to a rugaru when she was younger, which explained her tolerance of him. He'd had a quiet little crush on her that summer, though. She was, at the time, one of the coolest girls Sam had met; smart and clever, quick-witted, down-to-earth. Knew all kinds of useful bushcraft. Deadly; better aim with a gun than Dean, even. And she didn't seem swayed by Dean's beauty and charisma and flirty innuendo, like so many other girls did, which endeared her even more to Sam. It was fun to watch his normally effortlessly charming brother flounder. She had developed a pretty solid friendship with Dean, which was unusual back then, when it came to pretty girls. Well, when it came to anyone except Sam, really. Sam had been proud of him; finally starting to make connections with people that didn't hinge on sex.

He should have known better.

"Of course I remember you. You were the coolest girl at Clay County High School." His smile is genuine. Brady watches their exchange with interest. "What are the chances of running into each other three years later, all the way across the country?"

To Sophie's credit, she doesn't even blink at his dissembling. Like any good hunter, she can read a room and shift with the tides. "Well, if anyone I ever knew could calculate those chances, it'd be you, Little Einstein." She winks at him and he flushes at the nickname she'd bestowed on him with back then, when she'd discovered he'd spend an hour each morning by the creek reading through scavenged textbooks to get ready for high school the next year. Not just freshman level stuff, but college courses, anything he could get his hands on from the clearance boxes at secondhand book stores and 50 cent library sales, or could fit in his backpack without notice at thrift stores. He couldn't really afford to be picky, especially never knowing what curriculum his next school would offer. Better to be as prepared as possible. She hadn't made fun of him, instead, sat down with him some mornings and asked him to explain what he was reading, which, though he was shy about it at first, he found helped him understand and recall the material better. She'd teased him gently, more self-deprecation than anything, _I figured instantaneous velocity is what happens when a werewolf gets the drop on me_ and _good thing I won't need to bother with this after this year, I don't know how you cram it all into that cute little head of yours._ She had dropped out once she turned 16, another thing she and Dean had bonded over.

She looks him up and down and smirks. "Well, not so little anymore, are you? Dang, Sam, you've really grown up, haven't you?" Sam can see Brady trying to hold in a laugh on the other side of the table, gives him his own quick kick in the shin. "How've you been? How's your Daddy doin'?"

"Good, everyone's good." _We're all alive, still, for now._

"How's Dean?"

Ah, there it is.

Dean and she had grown close, developed a real respect and affection for each other. Sam had been happy to see it. Dean was golden; easy to like, easy to love if he let you get to know him. He had a magnetism that drew people to him. It drove Sam crazy that, despite how easy it was for Dean to connect with people, he so rarely let anyone get truly close. Finally, Dean had a _real_ friend. It gave Sam hope, not just for Dean, if he was being honest, but for himself, someday.

Then Dean fucked her.

Four weeks in, after a particularly hairy day-hunt of a Flatwoods Monster (which Sam had found _terrifying_ but Dean seemed to think was _invigorating_ ), the group had been gathered together that evening around a campfire. Beer and whiskey were getting passed around liberally (which Sam had turned down, no matter how much Tim had insisted on _just a little, kiddo, c'mon_ , _have some fun,_ still nursing a headache from inhaling the monster's mild toxin). Dean did not have the same compunctions, and had gotten drunk enough to share hookup stories, the cruder the better, with some of the other guys. Sam had taken refuge next to Sophie as a buffer for Tim's dogged persistence, but she was distracted. Sam didn't miss the looks she had been shooting at Dean, filled with a reluctant mixture of disgust and fascination. When Dean had stumbled back into their tent the next morning, smelling of sex and cheap whiskey, Sam didn't even bother to ask. He thought maybe at least this time Dean would, you know, continue to invest the same kind of time and interest in a girl after he'd slept with her. Sophie was a friend first, right?

But Dean had volunteered to go out on every reconnaissance, supply run, research trip, and patrol that he could. He spent more time with John and the other adult hunters. Still flirted with Sophie, but it was all surface, slick, impersonal. She was too proud to let Dean see, gave it right back to him, but Sam saw the hurt on her face more than once when she'd turned away. After a few days, she'd stopped talking to Dean altogether, spent the rest of her week with Sam, asked him questions about the anatomy and physiology of various monsters and about the composition of stars, showed him how to set a wire trap to catch rabbits or squirrels, and how to tell the which vines you could get drinkable water out of. He was grateful for her company, but felt bad. He was a poor consolation prize; she obviously hadn't wanted to spend her time with a nerdy 13 year old kid.

"Same as ever, you know him."

"I sure do, sugar." Her smile is a little tight, but not angry. It has been a long time, after all, and Sophie's no wilting wallflower.

Sam turns to Brady, who’s been watching all this patiently and curiously. "Brady, this is Sophie. We went to school together in West Virginia for a while." Brady throws her his most disarming smile. "Sophie, this is Tyson Brady, my...boyfriend."

He only pauses a second before it spills out. Shit, he hopes Brady doesn't mind too much. It's not like they know anyone here, anyways.

Sophie looks genuinely pleased to meet Brady. Brady likely doesn't notice because he's busy blinking at Sam, mouth caught somewhere between hanging open and a smile.

"Nice to meet you, Tyson. You must be an interesting guy to catch Sam's eye. We all always knew he was meant for big things, and I suspect that's not changed."

Brady turns his slightly stunned grin on her. "It's Brady. no one ever calls me Tyson 'cept my mom and this jerk over here, when I annoy him too much." His fingers casually wrap around Sam's hand lying on the table. "And, yeah, I'd like to think i'm good enough for the likes of Sammy, but...honestly, he's slumming with me. _I_ know it, I'm just hoping _he_ doesn't catch on too soon. The best I can do for now is buy his time, and whatever else he's willing to throw my way, with breakfast."

Sam's kick under the table is not subtle this time.

"Ow! Fine, then. _Brunch_."

"There aren't enough brunches in the world, Brady."

"Not even with mimosas?" he looks at Sophie, curious. "Do you guys do mimosas here?"

Their antics draw a bright bark of laughter out of Sophie, which almost seems to surprise her as much as it does Sam. Maybe Dean didn't fuck things up too badly with her. Maybe she didn't resent having to spend time with Sam as much as he'd thought.

"No, unfortunately not, or I'd join y'all. But we've got awesome fresh-squeezed orange juice, at least."

"That sounds perfect. Two OJs for me and my boy-toy here."

Sam gives Brady's fingers a hard squeeze to match his hard look. "Wouldn't it be the other way around, what with the slumming and all?"

"Hmmm, you're probably right." He looks brightly up at Sophie. "Two large OJs for Sam and his boy-toy, please."

Sophie snickers. "Gotcha. Are you all ready to order, or do you want me to drag it out a little longer so you get your money's worth?" She directs this at Brady with a wink.

"Oh, I think you might just be the best waitress _ever_." He croons. "Yeah, give us a few minutes, or ten. The french toast has been calling my name all morning, but this guy probably needs a little longer to figure out how many vegetables you guys can cram into an omelet."

"I guess some things don't change." She laughs. "I'll be back...but not _too_ soon."

Sam lets out a deep sigh as he shakes his head. Yeah, some things don't change, like Sam's bearing the brunt of his friends' teasing. He finds that he doesn't mind too much, though, when Brady laces his fingers together with Sam's.

"You should get the Basin Street Scramble, that looks awesome, and I'll enjoy my half."

"Oh, will you?"

"Yeah, 'cause _you_ know, _I_ know, hell, Sophie there probably knows, there's no way you're not eating half of my french toast."

"You think I would do that?"

"Deny your boyfriend his delicious breakfast, that he drove a whole hour for? I'm certain you would, you bastard. I'll say it again, it's a good thing you're so pretty." He takes a sip of his coffee, closes his eyes with a content sigh. "Oh, and get some home fries, too."

...

Everything tastes as amazing as Brady had promised. Especially the french toast. After Brady nearly stabbed Sam's hand with his fork over the remaining bite _(I love you and all, man, but 'last bite of my french toast' is really kind of at least a five-year anniversary kind of thing)_ , they sip their coffee and bullshit about school and friends and absolutely nothing until Sophie shows up with the bill. She'd seemed to enjoy their company during their meal, slipping them each a free refill on the actually-awesome orange juice, and stopping by just enough to check on them and flirt with them both in a friendly, platonic way that put Sam far more at ease than when he'd first spotted the hunter's signs over the door.

Though not completely.

There was still a chance that Sophie could, completely innocently, mention to someone else that worked here, _oh, guess who I saw today, you know Sam Winchester? John's son? Dean's little brother? His boyfriend says they go to Stanford._

Yeah, that was _really_ something he didn't want to have happen.

As they make their way up to the register to pay, he looks around for Sophie. Maybe he can just tell Brady that he'd like to say goodbye to her, see if he can get a quick word and ask her to keep his visit, his proximity, under wraps. Hopefully she'll understand. Not ask too many questions.

Brady finishes up paying, and thrusts a twenty into Sam's hand. 

"Hey, can you go give this to Sophie for her tip?" He nods over to their table, where Sophie is shooting glances at Sam as she starts bussing the table, "And, like, go say bye to your friend, get her contact info and stuff. No rush. I'll be out in the car."

Sam shoots Brady a look of gratitude and makes his way over to their table. Sophie smirks at him as he walks up.

"Boy, you are just completely in love, aren't you?"

Sam knows he's blushing again, can't suppress his smile. "Maybe just a little."

"Good. Makes me glad to see it." She squeezes his shoulder. "You deserve to be happy."

He shrugs, "I dunno, maybe...I'm not gonna turn it down, anyways. How about you, Soph? Are you happy? Doing ok out here?" He goes to gesture, remembers the money in his hand. "Oh! Before I forget, this is from Brady."

"I like that boy even better now," She takes the bill and folds it into her apron pocket. "And I ain't gonna turn it down, neither." She looks at him seriously. "You know, I'm doin' good. Way better than I thought I'd be at this point. Had a couple of rough years, got a little crazy, but don't we all?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think we do. Comes with the job, maybe?"

"Probably. But, Sam... I gotta tell you, I swear, I thought about you a buncha times over the past few years, how proud you'd be of me."

"What? I mean, why? I mean, not that I wouldn't be proud of you for...why'd you think of _me_?"

She laughs, not meanly. "Cause I'm goin' to school." She grins, buttons near bursting. "About two years ago, I was sitting in this shitty deer stand, and it's sleeting out, and the damn thing is leaking, I'm soaked and shivering and bored outta my skull, cause the...buck...we're waiting for is nowhere to be seen, and fuckin' Fred goes and leans his rifle against the tree he's takin' a piss on, slips, and shoots one of his goddamn balls off."

_"What??"_

"I swear to the goddamn Green Man, I don't know how he managed to angle it right, but took the damn thing almost clean off."

"Oh my god." Sam covers his mouth, trying not to let out the hysterical giggle that wants to escape. "Fred Dwyeler? Holy shit, I really shouldn't be laughing at that."

"Oh, yes, you sure as hell should be laughing at that! It's fucking absurd! And of course, what kind of idiot would do that except for Dwyeler?"

They're both sniggering now. "That is such a Fred thing to do."

"Completely. But, of course, I'm the one with the best medic skills there, so I'm the one that gets to reach down in between Fred's disgusting legs, grab his disgusting balls, and clamp him so he doesn't bleed out the whole way to the hospital."

Sam cringes, even though he can't stop laughing. "Oh my _god_. I'm so sorry! Christ."

"Me, too, sweetheart, me too. Anyways, there I am, in the back of a rusted-out F-150, covered in ball-blood, still soaked through and freezing, and I think to myself, _Sophie Crawford, what the fuck are you doing with your life?_ So, after we dropped Fred off, I went back to the motel, showered for about an hour or two, drank till I couldn't feel slippery balls in my hands anymore, and the next day I got on the phone and found out what I needed to do to get my GED. Knocked that out in under 2 months, and then found a good community college. Loaded up on biology classes, got my AA in a year and a half. Now I'm just taking a few months to work and save up some cash...cause I got accepted as a transfer into UC Santa Barbara's zoology program."

"Sophie! That's so fantastic!" He pulls her into a hug without thinking. "I'm so proud of you!"

She squeezes him back. "See? I knew you would be." When he lets her go the look she gives him is warm and affectionate. "My first semester they kept telling me I didn't have to figure out what I wanted to major in yet, I had a few years before I could transfer, I could take my time. But I wanted to have a plan, you know? And I kept thinking back to those talks we'd had about...animal...anatomy and biology. How fascinatin' it was. And you never treated me like you thought I couldn't understand it, or got frustrated with me when I didn't get it right away. Just found another way to explain it that made more sense with what I already knew. Realized that maybe I could pull something like that off, and that I actually _liked_ it, so why not?"

"You're amazing," She shakes her head, looking almost shy now. "No, I'm serious. I know how hard it is to pull yourself through something like that. You seriously rock."

"Maybe." She smiles.

"So, are you getting out of the hunting world entirely after this, or what?" He keeps his voice low.

"Naw," She speaks softly, too. "I like hunting, too, just not...the blind, dumb rush into the unknown, y'know? I wanna understand the things that we're dealing with. I'd love to study how they work, how they function, the best ways to contain them or take them down, if that's what we need to do. Maybe I'll have a straight day-job in the field, too, but I just don't think you can ever get out entirely, really. If I even wanted to. I don't know if I know anyone that's managed to leave the life."

She must see something on Sam's face. "Oh, fuck, Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. Didn't think you were lookin' to leave for good."

"It's ok. It's not like I haven't thought the same thing. About how maybe you _can't_ get out. In till you die, you know? One way or another."

"No, it's _not_ ok. I shoulda known. I meant it when I said I knew you were meant for big things earlier. And, honestly, I could tell even back then that the life, it wasn't good for you. Wanted to tuck you in my pocket and take you with us when we left that summer. You always looked so sad when you thought no one was watching." He's surprised to hear it. It's not like he thought Sophie was unobservant, but he'd always thought she was so focused on Dean; he was just the little-brother third wheel. "If anyone can do it, Sam, it'd be you. I mean, Stanford? Woah, that's almost insane considering the way we were brought up. You can pull that off, you can pull off pretty much everything."

"We'll see." He smiles, not wanting to take the shine off of her news. "But, honestly, if you want, we should keep in touch. I'd love to hear how things are going for you, and we can meet up if you ever get up this way once you start school."

"Or you come down my way."

"I dunno about that." He teases. "I'm allergic to LA. The closer I get to southern California the more I break out in hives. That may be too close."

"Uh-huh. Maybe I need to get Brady's number, too. I'm pretty sure he'd drag you down to make sure you keep in touch with an old, dear friend."

"He'd drag me down so he could flirt with you."

"Well, that too."

"He's got good taste." As Sam's texting his number to her he mentions, quietly. "Hey, Soph, about what you're studying. I could put you in touch with some people in the community that do some work in that area, or at least close enough to it. Let you know who's good to work with; who to avoid, too. There's definitely some people that could help you out, but...there's a lot of weirdness in that area, too. Not all of it the good kind; there's some people you really don't want to get tangled up with."

"I'd heard," She looks suddenly serious. "That you were studying. Had an apprenticeship; gonna be an esoteric. They said you were really talented, too."

The look he wears asks her to cut the bullshit. "Is that _really_ what they said?"

"A few of them. Most of them...not so complimentary about it."

"Yeah, that I am well aware of."

"They're idiots."

"I don't disagree, but, they're also most of the community."

"Well, fuck the community then. Even though I will take you up on those introductions."

Sam gives her a lopsided smile. "I appreciate your support."

"Anytime." She grips his arm, gives it a squeeze. "Hey, I do gotta tell ya. If you're trying to fly under the radar, don't wanna be recognized, you'll have to be careful if you come back through. Maybe text or call me first, see who's around. William and Lauren own this place, and, well..."

"Yeah, I know William's not really a fan of Winchesters in general, or esoterics. And especially not Winchester esoterics."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"No, not your fault. And it shouldn't be an issue, we're just passing through today. And the last thing I would want to do is cause you any problems, as delicious as the french toast was. But, if you don't find your way over to Palo Alto on one of your days off to hang with two most charming, handsome, and brilliant men at Stanford, then I will never forgive you."

"Oh damn! I can't pass that up. You think you can introduce me to these guys you’re talking about?"

They grin at each other, and she ducks forward to wrap him up in another hug. "I'm glad you stopped in today."

"Me too." He takes her wrist in his hand, and presses in the shape of a sigil with his fingertip, whispering under his breath. Feels the warmth and shiver pass from his skin to hers. A protection charm, one that will take a bit of a hit on his energy for a day or two, since it's pulled so directly and unfiltered from his core, but also the kind of strong benevolence that no hunter would turn down, even if they didn't accept magic the same way Sophie does.

Sophie pulls back, looks at her wrist, looks at Sam with wide, awed eyes. "Sam....you didn't have to..."

"Wanted to."

She looks down at her wrist again, and her eyes are a little wet, maybe, when she looks back up. "...thank you."

"You too."

He turns to look back at her as he reaches the door. She's still standing there, arm in front of her, watching him, with a small smile on her face.

"See ya around, Soph."

....

When he reaches the car, Brady's leaning back into the leather seats, drumming on the wheel, singing along to Shaggy on the radio. He gives Sam a blinding grin. 

"All good?"

Sam rubs his fingers together, feeling a little woozy and disjointed in the sharp winter sunlight. But still...

"Yeah. Yeah, all good."

"Well, get in, then, bitch. We still got places to go.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Sam needs a place to hide, sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got the chance to clean this up and post it! I wish I had a little more time to write right now; I'm making do with 15, 20 minutes grabbed here and there.
> 
> It doesn't help that, apparently, I am fundamentally incapable of writing reasonably short chapters...

Five minutes later they're winding up SR 1, heading north with glimpses of the green-blue Pacific peeking through the trees and beyond the cliffs when the road hugs the coast. The early afternoon sun scatters diamonds off the water. There are tatters of high, thin clouds whipped gauzy across the pale blue sky. It's, frankly, gorgeous, and Sam has plenty of time to take in the scenery. 

Which is strange. They haven't driven all that far. 

Around the time they pass the local airfield, Sam can't hold back any longer. 

"Woah, careful, there, Brady. We're in no rush to get anywhere right? And I'd hate for you to get a ticket on a nice day like this, man." 

Brady shoots him a confused look. "...what?" 

"Dude. I mean, look at the speedometer, you madman." 

Brady looks down, smirks at Sam. "It's ok, baby. If life in the fast lane is too much for you, I can slow it down more." 

"If you slow it down any more, we'll be going backwards.." He scoffs at Brady's faux-wounded look. "You're going 10 miles under the speed limit!" 

"Pffft. No I'm not!" He looks resolutely out the windshield. "...I'm only going 8 under." 

"...Right. And you averaged like 10 over on the way out here." 

Brady shrugs noncommittally. "Didn't know I had a driving instructor in the car with me keepin' such a close eye on things. You gonna teach me how to parallel park next?" 

"It's easy. You line yourself up carefully, and then slide right back in." 

"...oh, I got that down. I'm great at driving stick too, in case you're curious." 

"Pretty sure I knew that already" Sam shakes his head, totally not smiling. "...c'mon. What's goin' on? Did you fuck up Melissa's car, or something?" 

" _No!_ " Brady shudders. "God, don't even joke about that. Don't wanna tempt fate. I'm terrified of what that woman would do to me. I'd have to change my name, dye my hair, and run off to, like, Brazil. And I'd still be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life." 

"I vote red." 

"...what?" 

"For your hair. I'd love to see you as a redhead. It'd be sexy." 

"Are you serious??" He looks at Sam. "...you're serious." 

"What's wrong with red hair?" 

"Nothing...if it's on a woman! Red-headed women are smoking hot. Guys...not so much. Or _at all_." 

"Bullshit." Sam sneers goodnaturedly. "You just have no aesthetic taste when it comes to men." 

"Uh...I'm dating _you_ , aren't I?" 

"Yeah, exactly." 

"Wait, wh—" 

"Look, if you think men with red hair aren't attractive, then you just aren't paying attention. Did you, like, see Carrot Top and then just stop looking?" 

"Would you blame me if that were the case, really? Yeah, didn't think so." Sam snorts. "Ok, prove me wrong, Sammy. Enlighten me as to the beauty that is the red-headed man. Name me at least one hot ginger dude that I would know of." 

"Sure. Ewan McGregor. Robert Redford. Paul Bettany. Hmmm, Michael Fassbender—he was the hot one in Band of Brothers—" 

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that," 

"The hot _redhead_." 

"The main guy?" 

"Oh, no, that was, um, Damian Lewis. He's pretty hot, too, though. The other, hotter redhead. Let's see...oh, Dave Mustaine, like, back in the 80s, was pretty cute. And, of course, there's David Bowie— 

"Not a natural redhead. Doesn't count." 

"Well, first of all, Bowie counts for everything. And you're not a natural redhead, either." 

"...I am _not_ dying my hair red! I mean, even if you could convince me, I'd have to sell my soul or something, cause everyone knows gingers have to be soulless, and I ain't got time for that." 

"But you have time to drive 15 miles under the speed limit..." 

"Oh my god! It's only like 7!" 

"Why _are_ you driving so slow?" 

"Jesus fucking—I don't want to get there too quickly, ok? You happy?" 

"Aw, Brady, you want to spend more time with me? All you had to do was ask." Sam bats his eyes at him. 

"I spend too much time with you as it is." He grumbles. "It's just...I forgot." 

"Forgot what?" 

"That it doesn't take as long." He sighs at Sam's _go on_ look. "It doesn't take 40 minutes to get where we're going from Half Moon Bay." 

"...Ok?" 

"It only takes, like, 15, 20 tops..." 

"...Alright?" 

"It's just that...I made such a big deal earlier about how long it would take to get here. I forgot last time I came here, Maura and I got, well, not lost. Off course. We needed to ditch our parents while they went window fighting—it's like window shopping but with 100% more arguing and spite—so we drove up the coast and found this place. But we turned off to check something out, and then made a wrong turn on the way back to the main road, like, three times. We were gone almost three hours. They were so pissed." He grins, seeming pleased with himself, but then throws a glance at Sam, bites his lip. "But you said you were really enjoying the drive earlier, being on the road and stuff." He shrugs. "Just didn't want to get there too soon, you know?" 

Sam just looks at him. 

"Why are you looking at me? What's that dopey smile for?" 

"You're adorable." Sam sighs happily. 

"I'm not adorable! I'm badass, and ruggedly handsome, and dashing! _You're_ the freakin' adorable one. Stupid dimples and beauty marks and eyelashes and all your blushing and your ridiculous hair and shit." 

"If you say so." 

"...I _do_." 

By this point Brady's turning off into a dirt parking lot along the road, parking Melissa's car carefully, a few spaces away from any other cars. There aren't that many, despite it being a Sunday afternoon. There was an unusual cold snap for the area at the end of the week, and it's supposed to miss 50 by a single degree today. Sam would laugh, at least to himself, at anyone that said 49 was cold, but there's a fairly brisk wind that's really driving the chill into his skin, especially here near the sea cliffs. 

As they're stepping outside the car, Brady shuts the door, and then suddenly stops, eying Sam over the roof. 

"Wait...was that whole redhead thing just a ploy? A distraction to get me to admit why I was driving slow?" He narrows his eyes. "Or were you trying to get me to not pay attention to my driving so I'd speed up?" 

Sam smiles at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I just happen to think you'd make a sexy redhead." 

Brady stares at him for a second more, then shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he pulls a windbreaker from the backseat and locks the doors. Sam can only make out _diabolical_ and _the crazy ones_ and _dating a lawyer_. 

"C'mon, Ziggy Stardust." He beckons Sam after him as he starts to cross the parking lot. "We need to get moving. The other thing I may have forgotten is that we have about 500 stairs to deal with to get there." 

.... 

While it may not quite be 500 stairs, it's still a lot. Since they're going down them now, it's not long before they make it to the rocky crescent-shaped beach at the bottom. Sam throws a look back at the cliffs they just descended; he's not looking forward to the bitching and complaining that he's sure will come with the climb back up. Brady's body is firm and strong; he's more than happy to hit up the gym with Sam, but he sticks exclusively to the weight room. When Sam asked him if he was allergic to cardio or if he just hated his heart, Brady'd always shrugged. _Bike seats make my junk hurt, big dick problems, you kno—oh, maybe you don't, sorry_ , and, _if there's ever anything we need to run from, you'll save me, you're not afraid of anything and i'm really good at hiding, anyways,_ and _my dad's a cardiologist, I'm sure I could get on the short list for a transplant_. 

Honestly, though, Sam's still kind of woozy and uncoordinated from the energy he spent on Sophie's benediction. Doesn't regret it in the slightest, but he's gonna have a rough time climbing those wooden stairs today, too. Kinda like that time John made him run up the Huron Plaza stairwell at 6am as punishment for coming home drunk, only three hours before, when he was 15. Luckily, he didn't know that Sam was just as high as he was wasted, or he probably would have made him do it twice, and taken the belt to him beforehand, and not after. 

At least he's not likely to puke this time. 

"So," Brady says, arms spread out, slowly spinning, inviting Sam to take in the whole of the small harbor as if he, himself, had made the sand, waves, and towering cliffs. "This is Gray Whale Cove." 

Sam tilts his head back, turning in place to take it all in. "It's amazing." He says, sincerely. "Beautiful." 

So maybe he's looking at Brady when he says it. 

"Yeah, not too shabby, right? I thought you'd like it here." 

And Sam does. It really is spectacular; the slopes and peaks of the cliffs around them a mix of jagged grey stone and ground-hugging green brush, the half-moon of faded gold sand between the promontories jutting into the water on either side of them, the deep steel-blue of the Pacific churning itself through green into foamy white as it thrashes against the sand and crags. The air smells of salt and growing things, but with that base note of mineral you sometimes find in places surrounded by exposed rock. Everything's a little washed over and silvery with the sharp, pale winter sun. His skin prickles in the wind that whips through the cove. 

But beyond even that there's a fierce _power_ here that buoys and exhilarates Sam, sets his heart racing. Brady, while he's often so empathetic to the moods and needs of people around him that it still surprises Sam, doesn't have an ounce of sensitivity to the supernatural (and Sam has said a prayer of gratitude for that more than once). But even those without any gift sometimes feel the pull of places like this, without really knowing why. Sam can feel it thrumming through him, ramping up with each deep pulse through him, making his nerves twang like plucked chords, sparking tiny fires in his subtle body. It reminds him of the bass in the Impala vibrating through the seats, when the sound's turned all the way up and they're pushing past a hundred on some straight-as-an-arrow, cornfield-choked, midwest backcountry road, or a sandswept, broadly curving desert highway in the salt flats of the southwest. 

Combined with his already nebulous state from the events of the nights before and today's blessing, he's soaring on it like a leaf in a whirlwind. He can't put away the grin that's cracking his face open. He'd worry about how his eyes must look to Brady _(mad, crazy, dangerous)_ if he could bring himself to grab even a tiny thread of the concrete, the practical world right now. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to center himself a little. If he lets this build too much more, he's gonna spin out. Do something dumb and hurt himself or Brady, or, at the very least, the surge is gonna burn through him too fast and he'll be left even more depleted and thinned-out after it's gone. 

Regretfully, he pulls up a few of his barriers; not all of them, not all the way. Modulates the rush of energy tearing through him. Less firehose, more broad river to float in. He opens up his eyes slowly, nictitating their astral membranes at the same time, to get a look at the source of the energy swirling through the cove. 

It's magnificent. A light-limned nest, a vast net of vital elemental magic and intrinsic etheric energy, woven, knit, exquisitely around them. 

The major ley line that skims along the California coast, but only touches shore rarely, intersects here, running right up the length of the beach: a spitting, twisting, living rope of light, pulled taut between the bookend promontories, right over their heads, wide as a 6-lane interstate. But it also crosses no less than six smaller, less deeply-sourced, power lines. They spiral up and over and through the surrounding cliffs and hills; one even snakes up from the ocean floor, through the waves, its light refracting and breaking all green glowing through the turbulent water. But on top of that, there's also the confluence of three fundamental elements—the vast waters of the ocean, the earthy bare rock of the cliffs and hills, and the air of the blue sky high above and the wind funneled down into the cove. They're balanced well, the tension between where they push and pull and merge sending out fountains of branching, fractal luminescence at sudden and irregular intervals. 

Sam doesn't know all the power places in North America, of course, but he knows of the biggest, most important ones, and this place he's not heard of. It's much more modest than many of those famous ones in terms of sheer power. It's doesn't have the gut-wrenching sheer force of the convergence of two major ley lines that some spots have, nor does it have the fulgent potential of a place where all four elements meet in equal power, but the mix of the two types of earth energies makes for a delicious nexus of magics. It makes Sam want to strip his clothes off and bathe naked in it. 

Which, considering the few other groups of visitors speckled across the beach, might not be the best idea. 

Though he'd bet Brady would appreciate it. 

With that thought pulling at the corners of his mouth, he turns and looks at his boyfriend standing on the sand behind him. 

He's never looked at Brady before with the astral veil lifted, it's not something he wants to make a habit of in his new, _normal_ life. But he can't resist, just this once, and he's not surprised to find the view just as magnificent as what surrounds him; in his own, entirely non-biased, opinion, of course. Brady's aura isn't simple, but Sam didn't expect it to be. It's tangled, knotted, bruised in some places, in others loops in on itself protectively. But it's bright, and threaded with colors that resonate and shift. And it's warm, so warm. It sends tendrils out in some place, seeking out the light of others; vulnerable, but full of a pure kind of desire to connect. Many of them keep drawing back to Sam, slipping along his edges, under the surface. Their borders melt together briefly when they touch, and Sam lets one of his barriers down, just a little, feels Brady penetrate him, warmth spreading out from where they touch. He shivers; it's so incredibly sensual, intimate; he can't help himself. He surges forward, drops his mouth to Brady's, slips his eyes closed; lets Brady's warm tongue and warm emanations push into him. 

Breathless minutes later, he opens his eyes, the mundane world filling them now, all glimpses of the metaphysical tucked away again. Brady's smiling at him, bemused and fond. 

"I guess you really needed this, huh?" 

Sam smiles back. "I guess I did." 

With his boundaries tamped down now, the thrumming energy of the place is muted now, in the background; and, while Sam’s still feeling some of the residual euphoria, it's more of a gentle invigoration instead of the inundation from before. He'll only leave here a little recharged compared to how he felt before, but he's also not at risk of spinning out on energy intoxication. 

"C'mon," Brady gestures with his head towards the north end of the cove. "Let's walk a little." 

They fall into a slow, easy pace, and something in Sam unwinds when Brady takes his hand after a few steps. He often seems to instinctively know what Sam needs. Sam's never had anyone take care of him like this. Except, maybe, barring the one...though sometimes that was less about Sam's actual needs and more about what his needs were supposed to be... 

He wants to return the favor, though, as much as he can. To try and take care of Brady, too; keep him safe and happy. 

In this particular case, that's going to be a little uncomfortable, though. 

"So, uh...." Sam begins, glancing at Brady's profile. "I don't want to bring down the mood we have going here or anything, but there's something I need to ask. Or talk about, I guess..." 

"Oh, god, is this where you tell me you're in a cult, and you've dedicated your life to some guy who wears, like, silver boots and a ponytail, and channels aliens or angels or something? That I have to give up everything and shave my head and go live in a commune, which is really just an old barn in the middle of Montana? And I’ll have to wear, like, the same tracksuit until the end of the world comes, if I really want to be with you?" 

"..." 

"'Cause I'll do it. I mean, this may be premature, but I'm pretty confident in saying that the sex is _that good_. And, y'know, the modern world and money and all that _is_ kind of overrated. Although convenient. I do have one question, though." He stops and takes both of Sam's hands in his, looks at him seriously. "Is this, like, a polyamorous thing? 'Cause I don't mind sharing you now and then, but you ain't gonna be anyone's little wife but mine." 

Sam squeezes Brady's hands. "No, no. It's not like that at all." He replies, just as seriously, "Y'see, the boots are gold, and he channels the elder gods. So less 'drug-fueled prairie orgy' and more 'rampage of unspeakable madness and horror'." 

Brady considers for a moment, "Yeah, I'm still down with that. I'll wanna negotiate, though. I'm gonna need a second tracksuit if I gotta deal with all that ichor." 

"Deal." Sam grins at him, and they resume their walk down the beach. "You're an idiot, you know." 

"I never claimed otherwise." There's a comfortable silence for a moment. "So, what's the Serious Thing we need to talk about?" 

Sam decides to cut straight to the point. "So...last night. No condom." 

Brady scratches at the hair behind his neck, scrunches his face up apologetically. "Yeah...I know. I am so, so sorry. That was an incredibly stupid and shitty thing to do." 

"Hey, it's not like it's all your responsibility! I'm just as much at fault." Sam gets stern at Brady's skeptical face. "I'm serious. I'm just as capable of stopping and rolling a condom on someone else's dick as I am my own." 

The middle-aged woman with the soccer-mom haircut passing about three yards away from them turns and looks at him when he says this. He flushes, but she only nods seriously at him, and mouths what appears to be _damn straight_ before continuing on her way. 

Brady sighs. "Well, regardless of whose fault it is or isn't, it happened. And I've been tested in the past month, so, I know I'm clean, but I feel bad putting that stress and worry on you." 

"Yeah, I, um...I've—it's been recent. Like, um, _real_ recent, in fact. Don't get mad, but last time was actually only—" 

"Sam. You don't have to feel bad or explain yourself or anything. We weren't together; you didn't owe me anything. I mean, it's different _now_. You're gonna be with anyone else, then _I_ decide that. But you're a grown man, and you were a single one." He grins. "And I could kinda tell, anyways, too. Fresh marks. You were kinda swollen still. Not to mention, that brand." He nods his head in the direction of Sam's hip. 

Sam rubs his hand across his eyes, breathes in. "Yeah...I mean, I know you're not a judgmental asshole. And you're refreshingly open-minded. But, still...I just feel like..." He trails off, shrugs, looks at his feet. "Anyways, I used protection with everyone at least, even though I know that doesn't—" 

Brady raises his eyebrows at him when he breaks off his sentence with a deep flush. "Everyone, huh?" 

"I mean...oh god." He drops his face into both hands. "Everyone, as in every _time_ —I mean—jesus christ—it was only one person this time, but—" He shakes his head. "Fuck me. I'm just making it worse, aren't I?" 

To his surprise, Brady just laughs. "Not really. I told you, Sammy, I've got no illusions about what you're like, or _what_ you like. One of the things I love about you is that you're such a slut." He knocks his shoulder into Sam's. "My slut, now." 

"Heh, what would you think if I told you I'm not even the slutty one in the family? My brother makes me look like a monk." Sam huffs. "Though he's way, _way_ less kinky. Way, _way_ more experienced, though. But, he's actually good-looking, like fuckin' beautiful; partners just dropped into his lap wherever we'd go. Sometimes literally. King of the sluts." Sam pokes Brady teasingly in the ribs. "You'd dump me in a heartbeat if you met him. He's charming and he's got personality, on top of the looks." 

Brady shrugs. He looks a little angry for some reason, and Sam regrets teasing him. "Wouldn't change nothin'. I'm selective with my sluts. I'm all about the Wagyu porterhouse, any day, over the 1-billion-served burgers." 

Sam grabs the lifeline. "Only the finest whores for Tyson Brady?" 

"You know it." He leers and slings his arm around Sam's waist, drawing him in. "I've got far better taste in men than you give me credit for." He pulls Sam into another lip-bruising, breath-stealing kiss, effectively shutting him up, and pushing any thoughts of Dean out of his head. 

"I'll demonstrate in a minute," Brady says as they start walking again, hands still clasped. "But first, yeah...you probably should get tested before we think about not using a condom again. Me, too, really. I just want to be sure, first, even though I hate waitin’ for things, and I really, _really_ love filling you up, gettin' you all sloppy." 

Maybe Brady's right about Sam's blushing problem. Maybe it's just Brady, though. "Yeah, we can hit up the student clinic this week. Figure things out after we get our results." 

Sam would love to reassure Brady, tell him that it's no problem. That the prophylactic spell that he'd worked out about three years ago does it's job, and does it well. He renews it about twice a year, and it's one of the few bits of magic Sam's not planning on giving up. It protects not only him, but his partners, too. Protects Brady. He briefly considers telling Brady that he's immune, but dismisses it immediately. Not only is it basically biologically impossible to be immune to every STI, at least for a human (and hell, not just humans, just ask a shifter about FPGH, or form-persistent genital herpes, or as Dean had commented, _the gift that keeps on shifting_ ), but Brady's also studying medicine, and has been really into the _Principles of Epidemiology_ course he's been taking this semester. He wouldn't buy it for a second. Sam doesn't mind condoms, anyways, has used them with most of his partners, barring the long-term ones and those that practiced magic themselves. 

Although he, too, really, _really_ loves Brady filling him up. 

"Sounds good, baby." Brady rubs his thumb across the back of Sam's hand. "Ah, here we are." 

They've reached the far north end of the cove, where the cliffs swing out into the ocean. There are rocks scattered along the bottom, some larger, thrusting like fangs from the sand and water, some smaller and clustered and piled together like collapsed stone walls. It's a taller pile of these, maybe 20, 25 feet tall, that Brady leads Sam to. 

Brady hooks his foot up on one of the lower rocks, reaches up to hoist himself up the pile. He glances back at Sam. "I'm pretty sure you don't have a problem climbin' shit, right?" 

"None at all." Sam quickly scans the pile for the best route to the top, launches himself up. He reaches the top while Brady's still only about halfway up. 

"There's a good handhold about 8 inches to the right of your hand, maybe 5 inches up." He offers, helpfully. 

Brady looks up at him with narrowed eyes. "Show-off. Damned stupid-long arms and legs of yours. Don't worry about me, Spider-Man! I got this." Nevertheless, he reaches over and feels around for the hold Sam pointed out, hefting himself up when his hand slips in securely. Looks up at Sam a few more times when he gets stuck; calmly takes the instructions he calls down. When they're both standing on the top, Sam takes in the view of the beach from above while Brady surreptitiously catches his breath. He's got the strength to be a good climber, but would have to work on his flexibility and endurance a bit. 

"This is a nice view." 

"It is, but that's not why we're here." He gestures to the other side of the rocks they just climbed, where there's a long, narrow stretch of sand between it and the cliff. It ends on one side in a fairly flat, wedge-shaped rock angled about two or three above from the ground, angling gently to where the rocks and cliff meet. On the other side, there's a cluster of three of those fang-like rocks bulwarked against the waves. As they crash against them, a mist of droplets is cast over the tiny, private cove. "At least getting down on this side is a lot easier." 

And it is, the rocks are piled in a more stair-like fashion on this side, simple to clamber down. When they reach the bottom, Sam smirks at Brady. "I'm guessing you didn't drag me down here to show off your rock-climbing prowess." 

"Brat." Brady crowds up into Sam's space, eyes dark and sharp. "But you're right. I've been thinkin' about this for hours. Gettin' you alone, all spread out under the sun, against the rocks. Wasn't sure if I wanted you to blow me or if I wanna get a taste of your cock, though. What do you think?" 

Sam feels his dick start to twitch into attention; can't decide either. "Yes." 

Brady laughs, low and hungry. "Already decided on that on the way here, actually. Now, I just gotta figure out who goes first...hmmm." He looks Sam up and down speculatively. "While I'm thinking about it, you're gonna have to lose those clothes." 

Sam lifts up his shirt, lays it over a rock out of the way of the spray of water. As he's taking off his shoes and socks, he snipes at Brady. "So, you really want me to be all stark ass naked on these cold rocks with this cold ocean spray and this cold air? You truly are a sadist." 

"Bitch all you want, but, I mean, you didn't hesitate takin' em off." 

"...Ugh, I hate you." 

"You love me." 

Sam smiles to himself as he bends down to pull his boxers off, trying to be careful not to get them covered in sand. "Somethin' like that." 

When he stands up Brady's eyeing his ass consideringly. "Think we're gonna have to get you some briefs. You'd look great in something nice and tight; nice thin cotton. Definitely gonna need a jockstrap, too." He cocks his head to the side. "I wonder if I can find something lace, some silk, in your size. Maybe a couple'a g strings...Can't be too hard, you got, like, perfect drag queen legs." 

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, can't say I ever thought of them like that, but I can say for sure, that, yes, they do make—ugh, another word I hate— _panties_ in my size." 

"Hmm, you're gonna have to tell me all about how you know that. But right now..." He pulls Sam in front of him as he backs up against the cliffs. "I got something way better for you to do with that mouth." 

Sam can't help snickering. "You've been watching too much porn." 

"Maybe, but, if you keep mouthing off, I'm gonna _leer_ at you again. _Sexily_." 

"Heaven forbid." Sam rolls his eyes as he drops to his knees in front of Brady. 

Brady's eyes are all pupil as he looks down at him. He takes Sam's jaw in his hand; Sam leans into it as he runs his thumb along the line of his chin. 

Brady leans back against the rock. "All yours." 

Sam takes in a shuddering breath as he looks up at Brady, features outlined in sharp-edged shadow, hair gilded in the crisp sunlight. He leans forward, lifting the hem of Brady's shirt with his nose as he mouths along the skin underneath. Brady's got a beautiful line of fine, dark hair leading down from his navel. Sam's still pretty light on body hair, himself, but he shaves, anyways, always having loved the way rough hands feel on his smooth skin. He laps at the trail, smoothing down the hairs against Brady's skin, loving the way the texture slides against his tongue. He hears Brady's breaths start to pick up, just a bit, above him. 

He slips his hands up the front of Brady's thighs as he mouths his stomach, quickly but smoothly pulling open the button at his waist. He dips the tip of his tongue down into the tiny vee of skin that's exposed. He can see Brady's pants tenting out of the corner of his eye. He's already half-hard, himself, though with no fabric to hold him in. His hands move to the zipper, and he tugs, just a tiny bit, at the pull, while watching Brady's face. His lids are half-lowered as he watches Sam, his lips parted slightly. 

Sam starts to draw the zipper down, following its path with his tongue, pushing the fabric of Brady's boxer briefs down with his mouth, leaving a trail of slick skin behind. He moves his hands to gently grip the fabric of the pants once he's unzipped them; tugging gently, just enough to pull them down to the tops of Brady's thighs. He's suckling the skin right above the base of his cock, his mouth holding the band of his underwear in place. He takes the band between his teeth and pulls, with a little more force to get it past Brady's now-hard cock, down to nest beneath his balls. 

Sam wouldn't always be so much of a tease when giving head. Some guys like it when you dive right in; already got their clothes out of the way, and Sam can suck the head like his life depends on it for a few seconds before sliding down till his nose is pressed into their pubic hair. Other guys want to control everything from the get-go; tell him what to do every step of the way, with their hands gripped around his head to control all his movements. One guy just wanted Sam to lie back with his head hanging off the bed, not move at all, just keep his throat open while he skull-fucked him. 

That had turned him on even more than he expected. 

But Brady, Sam knows that he'll appreciate a slow build-up, a little bit of sensual play, before Sam really goes to work. Also knows that they'll end up with Brady controlling things, using Sam forcefully, by the end of it. Sam wouldn't want it any other way; enough give and take to keep him more than a passive object (though he wouldn't mind that at all sometimes, too, and he's sure Brady won't either), but he still knows who's in charge. Sam's always felt that technique was only half the game when it comes to giving head, or really any kind of sex. The other half, no less important, is understanding what your partner wants, even if they, themselves, don't. 

But Brady knows what he wants, is content to let Sam glide his mouth along the side of his cock, get it spit-slick and even harder than it was before. Let him nurse the head, tongue the slit, flick over the frenulum. Let him drop down and take his balls into his mouth, hold each one there for a moment to warm them in the wet heat of his mouth, then roll the flat of his tongue over it. Lick between them, and just a little distance behind them. Sam listens for Brady's breath to reach just the right volume and frequency, and then pulls off of his sack to wander back up to the head of his cock, wrapping his lips around the head as he looks up to meet his eyes. 

Holding his gaze, he slides down the length, slowly, but steadily, keeping the pressure of his mouth consistent and strong. He opens up his throat and keeps pushing down until his lips are pressed against Brady's body. Brady groans out a soft _fuck_ , and Sam would smile if his mouth wasn't stretched so wide and full. Instead, he swallows around Brady, throat pulsing, tongue pressing up, lips contracting. 

Brady's fingers slide along the sides of his head, bury themselves in his hair. Not pulling yet, not pushing him down, but readying a promise. 

Sam slides his head back, till just the tip is inside his mouth. And then he gets serious. 

Sam's eyes close as he sucks and slides up and down on Brady's cock. He's completely filled with the taste, the feel, the smell of him. It's one of the things he loves about sucking cock, that, once he gets into it, he can completely disappear into the act. His thoughts shut down; he's nothing but being filled and choked with cock, nothing but spit and salt and flesh, nothing but the sting of the stretch of the corners of his lips and the burn at the back of his throat. He doesn't know how long it is before Brady's hands close to grip his hair painfully, but his chin is covered with drool and his throat already feels scraped raw. 

He opens his eyes and looks up at Brady, and goes completely lax, letting everything in him open up completely, even loosening the hold he has on Brady's pants so his hands just rest on his thighs. Brady wastes no time; uses his hold in Sam's hair to forcefully yank him down on his cock and Sam lets himself gag a little for the sheer joy of it. He holds him down, and Sam's not counting, but by the time he lets him up enough to breathe, his head feels light and his vision’s faded out a bit along the edges. Brady's not resting back anymore; his hips snap forward even as he pulls Sam on to him, both sides meeting with a bruising rhythm; fucking Sam's face, his throat, with complete abandon. 

Snot and spit are running down Sam's face, his eyes are watering and spilling over, his body jerking, his throat convulsing when Brady hits the back of it just right, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Brady's face. Brady alternates between avidly watching Sam take his cock and letting his eyes drop shut in ecstasy, his mouth hanging open, panting, the whole time through. 

If Sam had any doubts before, he knows for sure now. 

He's in love. 

When Brady comes, his eyes squeeze shut tight, his lips pull back over his teeth, his body goes rigid, his groan is guttural, almost feral. His hands tighten in Sam's hair even further, and Sam almost comes right there, only managing to hold back by sheer force of will. Brady has the consideration and presence of mind somehow to pull Sam off of him before he comes, which, while disappointing in many ways, is only right in light of what they talked about earlier. Instead, he comes all over Sam's face, which pretty much makes up for not being able to taste him. 

Brady sinks back against the cliff again, going lax and loose as his breathing slows down. His hands relax their grip but stay buried in Sam's hair. "Fuck me..." he breathes out. 

He opens his eyes slowly, looking at Sam in front of him. At his filthy face, come dripping off into the sand, at his sweaty, tangled hair, at his naked body, covered in a fine sheen of sweat despite the cool air. At his cock, red and straining and wet at the tip. 

"Goddamn..." Brady shakes his head. "I don't know who the hell taught you to suck cock, but I need to send them a fruit basket." 

Sam licks his lips (yes, technically against the current rules, but it's such a small amount, and it's not like it can hurt him, anyways). He doubts Brady would like the real answers to that speculation. Might as well chalk it up his already revealed faults. "...You better buy an orchard, then," he rasps out. 

Brady rubs back the sweaty hair from his temples, smiles down at him with what feels like genuine affection and adoration. "My slutty little Sammy." He looks down, frowns, lifts his foot to nudge Sam's dick with the toe of his Timberlands. 

"You didn't come, though. It really looked like you might." 

He sounds so let-down that Sam can't help but reassure him. "I almost did. You don't know how hard I had to fight _not_ to when I watched you come." 

"Why didn't you?" 

Sam shrugs. "You didn't say I could." 

A sharp, slow smile spreads across Brady's face at those words. "Such a good boy." He coos, prodding Sam's cock with his shoe again. The sound that comes out of Sam is barely human. 

Brady laughs, the bastard, then reaches his hands down to Sam, helping lift him up to his feet. He corrals him over to the far end of the crevice, gently pushing him back onto the wide, flat rock. Laying back, he's at about hip-height to Brady. Brady slides his hands under Sam's ass, encourages him to scoot back, so that his knees hang off the edge of the rock. 

"Bend your legs, put your feet up on the edge there. I want you spread out all wide for me. Yeah...perfect. That's gorgeous." 

Brady grips Sam's thighs, leans forward, looming over Sam, pushing his legs even further open. The sun behind his head makes a halo of his hair, obscures his eyes in black shadows. He reaches down, takes Sam's cock in his hand, gently stroking it a few times. 

"Look at this monster. I'm glad you seem to prefer bottoming. I'm not even sure I'm gonna be able to get this whole thing in my mouth." 

"I'm sure you'll do your best," Sam slurs. 

"Remind me again why I let you get away with so much lip, hmmm?" 

Brady doesn't wait for an answer but bends down and guides Sam's cock into his mouth. He slides down about halfway in one movement, and Sam gasps as Brady does something with his tongue that lights up the nerves on the underside of his dick. He slides up and down a few times, getting as much of Sam's cock wet as he can, the suction just right, enough to make Sam whimper, but not so hard that Sam's in danger of coming already. He starts to pump his hand over the remaining inches in sync with the movements of his head. He keeps up his firm but slow pace, not letting Sam crest too quickly; but slowly, steadily building up the pressure that's building up in his gut. 

Brady's other hand roams over the flesh that's in reach; stroking, pinching, driving the tips of his fingers in. He pays special attention to the welted, bruised skin of his thighs and ass, and creeps up from time to time to twist and pulls at his nipples. The little bursts of pain sparking across his body under Brady's attention are the perfect counterpoint to the pure pleasure pulsing from his groin. He gasps as Brady digs his thumbnail deep into his right nipple, causing his back to arch up off the rock. He swears he can hear Brady chuckle around his cock. 

Sam floats there in the consuming sensations, eyes closing against the unrelenting blue of the sky; getting lost in the way Brady plays his body. He opens up without even realizing it when he feels Brady's fingers push against his lips. 

Brady pops off of him, looking up as Sam sucks on the two fingers in his mouth. "Good and wet," he encourages. 

He pulls them out after a moment, and lifts his other hand from Sam's cock to place it on his knee, pushing it up and back towards his shoulder. "Hold that." 

When Sam is properly splayed open, he brings his fingers down to Sam's hole, pets at it, circles around the rim, then drives both of them in, not even blinking as he watches them sink in. 

"Perfect," he breathes, and then bends back down to get his mouth on Sam again. 

He leaves behind the _slow and steady_ , upping the suction and pace as he speeds up the rhythm of his hand, fucking Sam hard with his fingers as he pulls all the stops out. His tongue wraps around his cock as he plunges forward, then stretches out to drag the tip along the bottom as he pulls back. It's almost too much, and, once Brady starts targeting his prostate, dragging his fingers across it with every thrust, Sam breaks down and starts begging. He doesn't think he can hold off for much longer. 

" _Please_ , god, Brady...you gotta, please— _let_ me—" 

Brady doesn't let up right away, and the pleading from Sam's mouth grows more and more strangled and incomprehensible. Just when he thinks if he doesn't come that he might just die from the pleasure, Brady pulls off and starts stripping Sam's cock with his hand. "Yeah, c'mon, Sammy. Let it go. That's it, you can come for me now." 

Sam arches up again as he comes, splattering across his stomach and chest as he cries out. It echoes a little off the stones around them, mixing with the pathetic little sounds Sam makes as Brady strokes him through his orgasm to the point where he starts to feel raw and overstimulated. 

When Brady finally stops, Sam's eyes are closed, his head thrown back against the rock beneath him. All he can hear is his and Brady's breaths panting as they both come back down to earth. 

Sam slowly slides open his eyes. He sees the windswept clouds, the cliffs, the trees etched against the sky, 

...And three people standing at the top of the cliff, looking down, watching them. 

"Oh. Shit." 

"What is it?" Brady sounds almost as wrecked as Sam feels. 

Sam worries his lip, looks down at Brady, standing between his open legs, leaning forward, resting with his hands pressed into Sam's thighs, holding him open. "Um....look up." 

Brady looks up, looks surprised. Then starts laughing. 

"Um, can you maybe let my legs go? I mean, y'know, they can kinda see everything from up there?" 

Brady grins, shifts his knee so that its weight is pressing into Sam's thigh, still keeping his legs spread open. He lifts his arm and waves to the people above them. Hard to tell from here, but they look to be two guys and a girl, about their age. 

One of the guys waves back. The girl lifts up what looks to be a camera and takes a few shots. 

"I dunno, Sammy, looks like they're enjoying the show." 

"...You're loving this, aren't you?" 

"You're damn right I am." 

Sam sighs and lays his head back up on the rock. He won't deny that he feels a jolt of arousal at the idea of being watched, at Brady showing him off to strangers, naked and exposed and so fucking dirty. He knows Brady can tell that he's turned on by it, too. 

He feels like he's opened a bit of a pandora's box with this one. With all of it, really. He can't regret it, though. 

"Well, let me know when you all are done gawking. Maybe I'll just take a nap for now. Work on my tan." 

Brady grins down at him. "I'm lucky I found me such a filthy little slut. Lets me do whatever I want with him." 

He leans down and starts kissing Sam deep and dirty. From up on the cliff, they hear a wolf whistle, muted cheering. 

Sam can't help but start laughing into Brady's mouth, 

"Stop that, bitch! I'm tryin' to like, _own_ you, here." 

That just makes Sam laugh harder. 

Brady sighs, nips at his jaw, slaps his thigh. "Can't even romance a guy anymore. What's the world coming to." 

"I know, right? Jerks like me with no manners, ruining a perfectly enchanting and lovely peep show like that. The horror!" 

"You think you're so cute, don't you?" Brady tries to look annoyed as he helps Sam up. 

"I dunno, what do you think?" He bats his eyes from under his bangs. 

Brady puts his hands up in front of him in a gesture of surrender. "I plead the fifth, I gotta keep _some_ dignity here." 

"Oh, look at you with the legal terms! Twice in one day! I must be rubbing off on you." 

"...That, among other things." He looks up, shading his eyes. "Aw, looks like our audience left. Well, at least they caught the finale." 

Sam brings his underwear up to his stomach, going to wipe the mess off before he gets dressed. 

"No no, what do you think you're doing? Don't you dare wipe that off!" 

Sam looks up at Brady with a lifted eyebrow, sees that he means it. "So... you want me to sit covered in this the whole way home?" 

"...That's a stupid question." 

"I guess it is." Sam smiles despite himself. "Can I at least wipe my face off?" 

Brady sighs. "Fine. I _guess_." 

Sam wipes his face down as thoroughly as he can, pulls his pants back on over the mess covering his abdomen. When he's dressed he leans over, kisses Brady behind on his pulse point. 

"I hope you're ready," he breathes in Brady's ear. 

"...I'm always ready." 

"Good, cause we have like 500 stairs to climb back up the cliff, right after we get back over these rocks here." Sam grins over his shoulder as he starts clambering up the mound. 

Brady looks up at him, groans. "What the fuck was I thinking?" He follows behind Sam, starts making his way up the rock face. "You're gonna carry me up the stairs, right?" 

Sam turns with a grin from the top of the rocks. "Now, that wouldn't be a very good way to romance a guy, would it? Makin' him into your pack mule?" 

"Piggy back rides are really fuckin' romantic, c'mon! Everybody knows that!" He hears the sound of small rocks clattering behind him, and Brady sighs. "Apparently, I'm a danger to myself. Next date, you gotta plan. That's the deal. " 

Sam smiles to himself. Yeah, that's a deal he'll sign on to, no questions asked. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam often wonders what he doesn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to be able to update a little more frequently with (somewhat) shorter chapters. This one in particular doesn't drive the plot forward too much (I do promise there's still one to be driven, though), but it does set the story up for its next turn.
> 
> Also, this is entirely inconsequential, but Jermaine looks kinda like Jemaine Clement in my head, hence the name. Just for visual reference.

It's been less than a week since Sam had gotten his head out of his ass and let Brady put something better there instead. A pretty good week, so far. Sam's stayed at Brady's place every night, even the dreaded Wednesday evening...Brady swore he'd keep his hands off Sam and let them both devote the night to homework and studying and- _ugh, really?_ -going to bed early. And Brady made good on his promise.

He made up for lost time every other night. And morning. And sometimes between classes. And in one memorable instance, in the middle of dinner. They'd confirmed that Brady could hold him up hanging off the kitchen counter just fine, but they both agreed the dining table was just the right height to spread him out over.

Sam decided he liked being in a relationship for many reasons-the companionship, the support, the affection. But the sex was high on the list, too. Sam enjoyed being so consistently well-fucked. Everything seemed a little easier: classes, studying, work—well, dealing with the customers barely phased him. Dealing with coworkers was a different story.

On Wednesday both Maya and Jermaine are on with him. The three of them always work great together, even during the lunchtime rush; had each other's work rhythms down, could keep up with flood of orders and still keep an easy banter going. Sam's always enjoyed working with either of his friends; both together was about as good as work could get.

And today, Sam's on too much of a high for work to even touch him; with a genuine smile for every customer, even the asshole that thrusts his refillable cup at Sam without pausing the diatribe he's spewing into the shiny new bluetooth headset (which he's making sure everyone notices). So it takes him almost two hours to realize his coworkers are unusually quiet, bending their heads together to whisper contentiously, shooting surreptitious glances at Sam every time there's a quiet moment. His suspicions ramp up when Jermaine catches him glancing over at them, and cuts off his sotto voce argument to beam a big, bright grin at Sam. Sam narrows his eyes at him, before turning away to greet a customer walking in the door, but not so quickly he misses Maya smacking Jermaine on the arm.

There's another small rush, and he forgets all about their weird behavior by the time Brady stops by between classes and Maya tells him to go ahead and take his break. They sit at one of the outside tables, talking, Sam eating most of Brady's chickpea salad, before Brady walks inside with him before taking off to his next class. Brady pulls Sam's head down for a quick, sweet kiss goodbye, and Sam watches him walk away to the sound of the jingling bells on the door, a smile on his face.

Which slowly falters when he turns back around.

His coworkers are standing behind the register, one of their regulars one the other side of the counter. Jermaine has a smug grin on his face; Maya looks annoyed. Kadek just looks amused.

They're all looking at him.

"What...?"

"I told you!" Jermaine crows. He turns to Maya, holds out his hand, wiggles his fingers. "Pay up."

Maya, grumbling, reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a twenty, begrudgingly slapping it in Jermaine's hand.

"This'll be just what I needed to finally pick up that Ibanez I've been eyeing," Jermaine holds the bill ostentatiously up to the light. He slides his eyes over to Maya and smirks. "But my _real_ prize was the look on your face when you realized you lost."

"Shut up, Jer," Maya retorts with no real heat. "You just lucked out."

Kadek grins, "I don't know, it looks to me like _Sam's_ the one that got lucky."

"Wait...are you all...is this—did you guys _run a bet_ on me and Brady getting together??"

"Of course," Maya says, at the same time Jermaine says. "Not exactly..."

Kadek holds up his hands. "I didn't run anything."

Jermaine pockets his new-won money. "We didn't bet on _if_ you'd get together. We all agreed it was a sure thing." Maya and Kadek both nod in confirmation. "We bet on _when_ you'd get together. If I won—which I _did_ —I got the cash and Maya's gonna take all my Saturdays for the next month. If Maya had won—which she _didn't_ —"

"I would have gotten the cash, and Jermaine here would have had to lose the Buddy Holly glasses for frames of my choosing for a month. I had _such_ the perfect pair picked out, too." Maya sighs. "As much as it pains me to admit it, I may have overestimated you and your boy's powers of denial. I said mid-March, since I thought it would take spring-break levels of alcohol and debauchery to get over that first hump."

Jermaine giggles. "Oh, I bet they got over that first h—Ow!" He rubs his arm petulantly. "Don't be a sore loser."

Maya ignores him. "Laughing boy over here said early February. But only because of Valentine's, which—you two may be sickeningly cute together, but it's an altogether different kind of sickeningly cute than _Valentine's Day first dates_. I think I should win by default, because I bet you my reasoning was a lot closer to the truth. Right Sam?"

"Bad reasoning doesn't cancel out good results. That's what my uncle always said, and he's head of research over at—"

"So which was it, Sam?" Kadek asks before Maya and Jermaine can devolve into more bickering. "Did you get drunk and trip into bed together, or did you both need dates for the big Valentine's Day sockhop?"

"I don't know what all of you have against Valentine's. It's a great holiday. Romantic." Jermaine pouts. They all ignore him.

"...It was neither, actually. Perfectly sober. And I happen to think _all_ holidays are bullshit." He shakes his head. "Maybe both of you owe _me_ twenty bucks, too."

Maya looks at him shrewdly. "Hmm. I'm willing to be the bigger man and admit defeat. Jermaine is the winner." She claps her hands. "Ok, back to work, everyone."

"Sure, boss." Sam drawls as he ties his apron back on, steps behind the counter. He looks at Kadek. "Sorry you got caught up in their idiocy today."

"Oh, me too. Except... it wasn't _today_ , I'll admit. I had bet on early December, so my money's already been in the pot Maya's keeping in the back for a month. How much did that get up to now?"

"It was at 220. Not including Jer and me."

Jermaine does a little fist pump while Sam looks at all of them, appalled. "Oh my god." He closes his eyes, and shakes his head. "Maya, I'm sorry to leave you hanging in the middle of a shift, but I'm gonna have to quit, 'cause I'm going to die of embarrassment in, oh, about 5 minutes."

"Resignation not accepted, Winchester. You're too useful, and humiliation is our lifeblood here at Deja Brew. Just ask Jermaine."

"Oh, yeah." Jermaine looks up from where he's refilling the decaf percolator. "I'm not even sure I can even get embarrassed any more. It's like exposure therapy."

Sam sighs. "At this rate, I'll be immune soon enough." He looks up at Kadek as Maya starts making him his mocha. "Seriously, did _everyone_ know already?"

Maya pats his shoulder as she passes by, gives him a pitying glance. "Everyone but you and Brady."

Sam grimaces as he starts grinding fresh espresso beans for the evening shift. Maybe a little aggressively, but no one calls him on it. Jermaine sidles over to grab the kona blend from behind Sam.

"Did you mean that, man?"

Sam just grunts quizzically, not looking up. Why the owner insists they use a manual grinder, he will never understand.

"You really hate all holidays?"

"Yeah, Jer." Sam shrugs. "Kinda."

"Even _Christmas??_ "

"Yep. Though Christmas may be able to make a case for itself after this year. We'll just have to see."

Jermaine gives him a sad look. "I really hope so. Christmas is awesome. Though, you really should give Valentine's a chance, too. Don't listen to those heartless heathens over there."

"I'll take it under advisement."

"That's all I ask." Jermaine repeats Maya's pat as he walks away.

"Wait," Sam looks after him, confused. "Christmas? Aren't you Jewish?"

"Well, yeah. But Christmas is for everyone. It's not about religion."

Sam shoots a bemused glance at Maya, who smirks and rolls her eyes. "I mean, he's less wrong than usual. But I really don't know why you keep engaging him, Sam. You just never learn your lesson."

Sam shakes his head, smiles to himself as he goes back to turning the crank of the grinder, a little more gently than before. "No, I guess I don't."

...

"So, everyone knew. Like, way before we did." Sam sighs. "And by everyone, I mean, like, _everyone_. Even my customers."

"Hmmm?" Brady doesn't look up from his Epsilon-Delta proofs. "Knew what?"

"About us!" Sam gestures between them. "That we had a thing for each other."

"A _thing_ , huh?" Brady finally looks up from his homework, smirks. "I guess that's one way of putting it."

Sam's eyes roll. "You know what I mean." He pushes his Immigration Law essay notes out of the way, leans back into the couch cushions, rubs his eyes. "They had a _fucking betting pool_ going for when we'd finally get together."

Brady's smile spreads into a grin, and he drops his pencil on his book; turns to Sam. "Oh, yeah? That's awesome. Who won?"

" _Awesome_?" Sam is incredulous. "Try completely humiliating! Ugh. And Jermaine won."

Brady laughs delightedly. "Ha, that little doofus is sharper than he lets on. How much did he win?"

"240 dollars. And a month of Saturdays off."

Brady whistles. "Good for him. Damn, that's not a bad pot for a bunch of broke students. Must have been a few people in on that."

"Over a dozen, Brady." He shakes his head. "At least _13 people_ spent at least a few hours discussing us fucking."

"Oh, that's just the ones you know about, baby. I'm sure there were more. I hope so, at least. I mean, have you _heard_ our friends gossip before?" Brady pats his knee, but can't stop grinning. "And really, we're damned sexy. Of course people would be talking about it." He leers. "In vivid detail, I'm sure."

"Right." Sam says flatly. "I'm sure that's it. They can't help themselves; we're just _that_ irresistibly hot."

Brady shrugs, picks up his pencil to get back to work. "Well, _I_ am, at least."

There's a few minutes where the scratching of a pencil fills the silence as Sam stares off at the ceiling. He absently hears it slow to a stop.

"This is actually bothering you, isn't it?" He puts his work down, scoots closer to Sam on the couch, pulls him closer. "Look, don't worry about it. I'm pretty certain it wasn't meant to ridicule us. They like us—well, some of them like me, and even the ones that don't definitely like you. I know you didn't really spend a lot of time in one place, so you didn't really get to grow a close-knit group of friends, but this is the shit they do to each other. Like, teasing or whatever." He puts his arm around Sam, rubs his shoulder. "Hey, if nothing else, look it this way. Pretty much confirms we make an awesome couple, if everyone agreed it was bound to happen. Hell, we can't even get that group to agree on which brand of 6-pack to get, or what to put on a pizza."

Sam huffs out a laugh. "That's not really what's bugging me. I mean, I was embarrassed; still am, a little, thinking about it." He leans into Brady "I'm not used to having attention on me, makes me uncomfortable. But I'm pretty much over it, and I get that it wasn't malicious."

"Why can't you be a proper attention whore, like the rest of us?" Sam side-eyes him. "Well, ok. Like me, then. No need to hide your pretty little light under a barrel. A bushel? Somethin' like that." He ruffles Sam's hair all messy, gets his hand batted away. "But, c'mon, what's actually the issue; got you all mopey? Tell Daddy all about it."

Sam pulls his head back, stares at Brady.

"What?...'Daddy' not working for you? Not into that?"

"It's just...dude, you're _younger_ than me."

"Totally besides the point. You might be older, but you don't have even a _hint_ of daddy vibe goin' on. And only by two months, anyways, you overgrown twink. Still, gonna make note of that fact that you didn't deny being into it." He shakes Sam a little. "Stop deflecting, though. You're thinkin' way too much, like usual. Spill it."

Sam sighs, pulls his hands down his face. "How could we be the last ones to figure it out? I mean...maybe it doesn't matter if everyone else saw something. Maybe there's a good reason we couldn't see that it was mutual, that we were keeping it at bay. Like...self-protection, or something."

"So, what? You think we're fated to go down in flames or something? Some star-crossed lovers bullshit?"

"Well, when you say it out loud like that, it sounds stupid."

"That's 'cause it is."

"That's not really what I meant, anyways. I'm really not on board with the whole idea of insurmountable fate. It's just...I had really good reasons for thinking you could never be into me. I'm pretty sure they're still valid reasons, so I guess it freaks me out a little. Makes me nervous."

Brady gestures. "Go on. Elaborate. Allow me to shoot down your overly convoluted insecurities, imaginary flaws, and poor reasoning."

"...You've got Calculus homework to do."

Brady just stares. "Do you honestly think that's gonna work?"

"Fine. Just don't come crying to me if you get another B."

"I think I'll hold it together." He leans back against the couch. "Look, obviously I was an idiot about everything, too. I thought you were way beyond my reach. It was obvious you liked me, we were friends, besties, spent a lotta time together, but...I dunno. After a while I just figured _he's just not into me like that,_ probably. I'm not his type, or whatever"

"Well, that's kinda true...you're not really my type, usually."

"Wow, Sam, don't sugar coat it." Brady laughs.

"Oh, fuck off, I don't mean it like that." Sam shoves him lightly. "I'm obviously into you, dumbass. Have been since you pretty much sat in my lap in the library. I just mean...Well, I don't tend to attract guys like you. Like, ever."

"Like me how?"

"You know, like...Sane, stable, accepting. Kind. Affectionate. Emotionally available?"

Brady whistles low. "If I'm all those things to you, then I'm not sure I ever want to meet anyone you dated in the past."

"Ha...you have no idea. That's not a great bar for comparison, anyways; you don't give yourself nearly enough credit." Sam scratches at his chin. "Also, 'dated' is really not accurate for most of them..."

"I can imagine...Slutty Sammy." He whispers, only to get another shove from Sam.

"I gotta admit, too, some of it was you being rich. I didn't know how to handle that. Like, I mean, look at me next to you. I didn't want you to feel like you were slumming."

"I'm not really rich you know. Well, kinda, but like way on bottom of the totem pole of the wealthy. We're honestly more upper-upper...upper middle class than anything. Just a mild case of wealth."

"Whatever. Everything I owned when I came here fit into a duffle bag. With room to spare. You're rich to me."

"That's not true! You have a backpack, too." He laughs. "...but, Sam, you gotta know that shit means nothing to me. It's not my money in the first place. It's nice. It's convenient. I don't hate it. And I know you're not my friend because of my money or any bullshit like that. But, I've said it before, I'm not the one slumming in this relationship. Money doesn't make me better than anyone. Maybe a little worse, if anything."

"I don't give a damn about your money _itself,_ Brady. At least, it has nothin' to do with how I feel about you. At all. And I don't think you're a rich bitch type, either. It's just....like, the well-off don't notice people like me, usually. I'm background noise they'd rather not acknowledge. I'm poor, I'm plain, so they don't see me unless I have something they want. If I can do something for them, usually something they don't want to have to deal with themselves, that's beneath them. Or if they want to slum. So, there’s just always that kind of expectation in the back of my head, you know?" He shrugs. "And, to top it off...I really didn't know if you were _into_ guys, even."

Brady stares at him. " _How could you not know??"_

"Well, I mean, I never really saw you flirt with men or anything."

"Yeah, ‘cause I was kinda focused on getting into _your_ pants, you know? Um, had my hands all over you? Sleeping together?"

Sam flushes. "C'mon, you're pretty affectionate with everyone, so how was I supposed to know?!"

"You really think I treat all my friends like I do you?" Brady shakes his head in disbelief. "Damn, I'm kinda proud that you think I'm that easy."

"Well, you kinda are. Once you get past the _do-you-like-me-check-yes-or-no_ notes stage." Sam grins.

"Maybe I should have given you one of those in the first place." He looks at Sam. "You know what it finally took to get me to man up and do something?"

"Um, getting me desperate and naked and sobbing in your bed?"

"Well, now you're just giving me ideas for later..."

"It's Thursday tomorrow."

"...Seriously, you can be such a buzzkill." He huffs. "Sure, that was the spark and all, but the fuse was already primed."

"...You don't prime fuses."

"Well, maybe _you_ don't...you know what I meant, bitch. Anyways, it was Nathan."

"Nathan? What does he have to do with it?"

"Well, what he _wants_ to do is _you_."

"What?"

"...Well, I'm kind of reassured that at least it's not just me you're oblivious to. Anyways, he saw you at The Crucible."

Sam almost chokes. " _What??_ "

"C'mon, Sam, you think you're the only kinky bastard in our group of friends? I mean, you might be the most extreme and all, but, really? Like, tell me you at least know that Tara does photography for the kink scene?"

"..." 

"Oh, c'mon! It's not like she hides it!"

"Well, she didn't show us her actual pictures! When she said sexy photos, I figured, like, standard boudoir stuff, maybe some pinup."

"Nope. I mean, I think she does a little of that on the side, but most of her stuff is pretty hardcore. Beautiful, though. Hot. You should ask her to see it sometime."

"Huh. Wow. But, um...yeah, Nathan saw me at the goddamn Crucible. And told _you_ about it?"

Brady shrugs. "He worried you might be runnin' around behind my back. Said he wasn't sure it was his place to get involved, and maybe we had an open thing going on, maybe at least where scening was concerned, but that if it were him, he'd want to know. When I told him we weren't like that, he was genuinely surprised. Didn't believe me at first, said everyone would be cool with it, we didn't have to hide anything. Once I convinced him, he was all _well, I gotta warn you, if you don't go for it, I will_. Told me I had no idea what I was missing out on, by what he saw."

" _Oh my god_. I only went there once, and...fuck." Sam shakes his head, swallows. "I'm surprised he can still look me in the face and act like everything's normal."

"Well, it's not usually your face I catch him staring at.' Brady smirks.

Sam groans and buries his face in his hands. "I think I've hit my RDA of humiliation today."

"Pssshh, Nate definitely didn't think any less of you for what he saw, I can tell you that much. Anyways, he musta seen something on my face, cause he backed off a little on the goin' after you. Said he didn't really believe in the 'calling dibs' thing, but it was clear you and I had _something_ goin' on, even if we were clueless, and that he wanted to give us a chance to get our shit together. Told me not to wait too long, though. That was about a week before you showed up all fucked up at my door that morning." Brady rubs at the back of his neck. "Was gonna say somethin' to you on the night I made you dinner. Chickened out."

"Declarations of love over spaghetti? Very _Lady and the Tramp_ of you."

"Shut up, bitch. You love to suck my noodle."

Sam shakes his head with a grimace of disgust. "No...just no, dude."

"Eh, can't land 'em all...shoulda gone with _'you're the one that's both the lady and the tramp,_ ' yeah? Anyways, it all worked out in the end, obviously. I got my Disney princess." He picks up his pencil and turns his attention back to the papers in front of him. "Still kinda kickin' myself that I missed that night at the Crucible. Sounded pretty fucking memorable. 'S not my usual club, though."

Sam's brain stalls, reboots a few times. "Wait...you have a _'usual'_ club? You go to kink clubs?? Which ones? When?"

Brady smirks, doesn't look up, though. "Hmm, yeah, but I think that's a talk for another night. Might get us a little worked up, you know, keep us from gettin' to sleep right away." He turns a page in his book. "And it _is_ Thursday tomorrow, you know."

"...I hate you."

"Whatever you say, Sammy." He innocently bats his eyes at Sam, who hasn't moved and is still staring holes into Brady's head. "Don't you have an essay to finish, baby?"

...

The next morning, as Sam's getting ready to walk into class, he feels the buzz of his phone in his pocket. He smiles, pulls it out, sees a message notification. Flips it open, and his smile disappears as he freezes in front of the doors of the Keck Building. 

_G (2 new messages)_

Gideon.

His heart clenches. Misses a beat, maybe two. He barely even notices the annoyed girl with the curly pink hair that elbows him; absently stumbling out of the way of the flow of students without lifting his eyes from the phone.

He selects the notification, presses the green button.

 _-Sam. None of your dreams will come true._

He lets out a long, shuddering breath, the relief outweighing the resentment. Thumbs down to the second message, opens it.

 _-I won't have to hold your debt for long. I'll contact you soon for assistance._

That feeling at the bottom of his gut; that cold, that clenching. It's not fear. 

It's _not_.

It's just relief that Dean, his dad are ok. Will be ok, for now. Everything else, he can deal with. It's all worth it, for that.

Right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam cleans up nice, with a little effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter I had to split in two, but I didn't want to go too long without posting and lose any momentum I can summon up, these days.

Sam tries not to let his unsettled mood leak out and cast a pallor over how bright things have been, but a vicious little part of his brain can't stop chewing over the messages no matter how hard he tries to shove it down. There's a tightness in his chest, a sense of imminent dread. He's also angry with himself for having already resigned himself to the inevitable, rather than finding a way to get out of it. Instead, he's been cycling over how he'll pick up the pieces in the unavoidable fallout.

It's not really like he ever had much of a choice, of course. Still, that doesn't alleviate how weak and pathetic it makes him feel.

Brady notices, of course. To Sam's credit, he doesn't seem to pick up on it right away; it's not until Friday morning that his face starts to go all concerned and calculating. But he can't give himself too much credit—he worked all afternoon and evening on Thursday, and Brady pretty much pinned him face-down to the living room floor as soon as he got home, intent to make up for the chaste night before by only taking the time to push Sam's jeans down to his knees, prep him quickly with two slick fingers, and yank his hips up before slamming into him. Sam's ennui pretty much evaporated at that point, not resurfacing until they were tangled up in bed later in the dark, Brady long since having drifted into the slow, even breathing of peaceful sleep. Sleep avoided Sam until the edges of the room started shifting to grey, and when it came for him, it was anything but peaceful.

So, maybe Sam wasn't quite as good at hiding his moodiness as he liked to think he was. Or maybe Brady was just that good at reading Sam.

"So," Brady opens with nonchalance, as they're lying tangled in bed Friday night. "You work tomorrow morning, right?"

"Yeah." Sam yawns.

"Hmmm. What time do you get off?" Sam opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, "And I know you're gonna say as soon as you see me."

"...I was not." Sam huffs. "Arrogant much?"

"Nah, your jokes are just that lame, baby." Brady ruffles his hair.

"Hmph. See if I put out tomorrow _now._ "

"Oh, that's too bad." Brady sighs. "That might just ruin my plans for tomorrow night. Shame. I think you would have really enjoyed it."

"Plans?" Sam rolls over, narrows his eyes. "I thought _I_ was supposed to plan the next date."

Brady snorts. "I love that we're talking about fucking and that equates to _'date'_ for you."

"Asshole." Sam smiles and tweaks Brady's nipple, maybe a little harder than he should. "I mean, historically, that's kind of been the extent of dates for me, really, so..."

"Tsk. Also a shame. You should be taken out and spoiled, shown off. Flaunted. Admired by the hoi polloi. And that's what I _intended_ to do."

"I'm not exactly the type people wanna show off." Sam laughs, burrows sleepily into Brady's shoulder. "Can we just skip the coyness and stop pretending we're not still gonna do whatever it is you wanna do? Cause I gotta be at work at 6, so, you know, gotta get to sleep soon, an' you just won't shut up." Another yawn. "You've already spoiled me enough, anyway. Used to getting way too much sleep now."

"Too much?? It's almost midnight." Brady glances at the clock dubiously. "You always get up by 5 when you open."

"...Yeah?"

"How the fuck is 5 hours _too much?_ I mean, even for eternally sleep-deprived students. I dunno how you survived on 3 and 4 hours a night, like, _all the time_ before I came around. Can't be good for your health." Brady takes his watch off, reaches back and drops it in the stoneware dish on his bedside table. "Probably stunted your growth. I bet you were supposed to be at least 8 feet tall."

"Doubt that."

"It would explain the leviathan you got in your pants."

"Not wearin' any pants." 

Brady reaches down behind Sam, strokes from behind his balls, up his crack, over his hole. Sam arches up into it, instinctively, like a cat. "Up to me, you never would be."

" _Don't_ doubt that." He nudges Brady. "Tomorrow night?"

"Oh, you'll be wearing pants. At least, _at first._ "

That ridiculous leer is starting to grow on Sam. Goddamn it.

Sam sighs. "...You're not gonna tell me what we're doin', are you?"

"Nope."

"Fine. I get off at 12:30, but we're always runnin' late on Saturday. I'll be back by 1:30 at the latest."

"Perfect."

"What is it with you and surprises, man?" Sam's not whining, he's just tired. "I hate surprises."

"No you don't. You love 'em."

Sam buries his smile in Brady's neck, where it can't be held against him. "Whatever you say."

Brady clicks off the light, wraps his arm around Sam, kisses behind his ear. "I'm glad you're finally learning that."

....

When Sam gets home shortly after one, Brady's nowhere to be found. There's a note on the kitchen counter, though.

_S-_

_Don't eat anything heavy or filling, but eat something cause we won't later. No coffee! (But fucking drink some water dammit)_

_Use that enema kit that's in the drawer in the bathroom. Shower, shave ( everything!!) You can jerk off in the shower, but only once. Don't blow dry or brush your hair (let it dry with those little curls around your neck) Trim and file your fingernails and toes (don't bitch about this or we're painting them pink) _

_Don't bother getting dressed (I mean it, there better not be any pants when I get home) I'll have something for you to wear. I'll be home around 4 or 5._

_x -B_

Sam's eyebrows are up somewhere near his hairline and he's blushing so hard he can almost feel the heat coming off his own skin, but he's not sure if it's from the contents of the note itself, or...

Well...who the fuck gets half— _mostly, don't lie_ —hard just reading a goddamn note??

Sam Winchester does, apparently.

He puts the note down, chewing on his lip. He's not sure if he _can_ eat anything, the nerves and anticipation already starting to build in his stomach. But Brady told him to, and there's no way he's going to be able to bring himself to fail to complete any of the instructions. He takes a small plastic container of berries and melon that Brady got for him at the co-op and starts picking at it as he heads towards the bedroom.

Two hours later, he's finished with everything and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his time to keep him distracted (he'd thought getting off would calm him down some, but he still felt pretty keyed up after getting out of the shower). Paces from the living room to the kitchen and back, running his hands up and down his hairless thighs in hesitant fascination; hasn't shaved below his groin since that one time back at that high school in Florida, where he could claim it was for the swim team. He decides his programming homework won't take more than an hour, and even simple code usually focuses him, keeps him from spinning around with his thoughts.

So when Brady waltzes in around quarter after four, he takes in Sam, sitting naked and well-groomed on the couch, laptop open on his spread knees, brow furrowed in concentration. He grins, leaning against the opening from the hallway, several bags hanging from his arms. 

"How can someone be so adorable and so dorky, yet still so sexy at the same time?"

Sam blinks up at him, his face starting to pink up just a little bit. It's not like he'd forgotten about the _surprise_ night out that Brady's instructions portended, but the arousal and anxiety had faded to a low rumble in the background that he could ignore in exchange for trouble-shooting mutable default arguments. "Aw, I bet you say that to all the naked guys who do their homework on your couch."

"Well...technically, you're not wrong..." He puts his bags down on the pass-through counter and stalks over to Sam. He starts to pick the laptop up out of Sam's lap and pauses. "Did you save?"

"Yes, Professor." Sam rolls his eyes.

"Oh, you're gonna have to hold the naughty schoolboy thing for another night, I think." He closes the computer, places it on the table next to Sam's water bottle. Brady sits on the coffee table, facing Sam, his knees between Sam's spread legs. Without saying anything, he starts touching Sam. Takes one of his hands in both of his own, turns it over, inspecting the nails, running his fingertips over the edges to make sure they're smooth. Puts that one down, repeats it with the other one. Both Sam's feet, one at a time, are lifted into Brady's lap and examined as well, Brady's fingers wrapped firmly around his ankle as he drags his touch across the toes, the arches. When he's done with that, he reaches forward, one hand on either side of Sam's face, tilting his head one way and then the other, lightly running his fingers through the curls behind his ears and at his nape, then dragging his palms across the silkiness of his freshly shaven cheeks. Those palms drag smooth down his neck, his chest, his abdomen. Back down to his ankles, then run up along each calf, over his knees, up the insides of his thighs, pushing his legs further apart as they go. Cupping his balls, rolling them once. The hands are removed, and Sam's breath starts up again.

"Stand up."

Sam stands.

"Turn around."

A minute passes, and the hands are back, palms on his cheeks, now-slick thumbs sliding in between, pulling apart. Sam's breathing speeds up, as his hole is circled, one thumb pushed halfway in, then two, the stretch too fast, setting off a twinge of pain that makes his dick fully harden. They pull apart his opening, hold it there. Sam pants into the quiet. After a moment, one thumb pushes all the way inside, sweeps around his inner walls, then is removed. He hears Brady stand up, move away across the room. The rustle of bags. Some motion by the dining table.

Sam doesn't move; stays where he was put.

The entire...inspection...was impersonal. Not cold, no; just, less about _sex_ , and more like a medical checkup, or the kind of examination you'd give a racehorse you were considering buying. Somehow, that turns Sam on even more than if it had been erotic and sensual.

He hears Brady come up behind him, feels the brush of his sweater as he lays his hand on the back of Sam's neck, feels his breath on his shoulder.

"Did everything on the list." The voice is low in his ear. "Such a good fuck-toy."

It's a good thing Sam's had years of practice at self-control, otherwise he thinks he may have lost it right there, all over the couch and carpet.

Brady gives his neck a squeeze, takes his bicep in his other hand and guides him to the table without a word. There are several unmarked bags set on it. One of the chairs has been moved out of the way. He stands Sam in front of it, pushes him to bend over, guiding his head to the right, so that his chest and left cheek lay flat against the wood. He can hear Brady, feel his heat next to him, the occasional brush of his clothing against Sam's skin, but he can't see him, or what he's doing. He finds that he's more than ok with this, that he, in fact, doesn't want to see, wants to just let it happen.

Sam hears what sounds like a lid being unscrewed off a plastic jar. A squelch, and moments later something slick is being pushed into his hole. He gasps a little at the cold. It's thicker, more like a paste or gel than their usual stuff. Brady doesn't spare the lube, removes his fingers and replaces them with another generous scoop twice more. Sam shivers a little, the lube clings to his insides, the weight of it making him fill both oddly full and empty at the same time. 

Brady takes his clean hand and pulls Sam's cheek to the side. Sam feels something push against him. It's hard and cold and heavy; metal, tapered to a blunt, rounded end. He feel the pressure as Brady slides it in, opening him up inexorably. The plug flares, seems to get impossibly wider, before it narrows. it settles deep inside him before the base nestles cold against his hole.

"Picked up three silicone ones in different sizes, too. Wasn't gonna use one at all tonight, but then I saw this one, and I thought, _that'll look real pretty in him._ Black steel—well, the chick there called it gunmetal—but it's all sleek and savage and, well, big, just like him." Brady pushes against the base forward, twists it; Sam moans at the cold heavy pressure rolling against his prostate. "Couldn't resist."

Brady's hands leave him, come back with one of his soft hand towels, and excess wetness is carefully wiped away. Brady grips Sam's shoulder, pulls him to stand, turns him around. There's a tiny smirk on his face and a slip of black fabric in his hand. He squats down on one knee, tugs at Sam's right foot. "Up."

Sam looks down, flushes, as Brady guides his foot through the black...panties. Right foot is placed on the floor. and the process is repeated with the left. Brady rising, sliding the silk and lace up Sam's legs, over his ass. His hard penis is tucked up against his stomach, the head peeking out over the elastic. They are simple, some kind of matte black satin that stretches over his hip bones, with an angled, vee-shaped panel of geometric mesh-like lace in both the front and back, allowing glimpses of the outline of his leaking cock, and likely the plug in his ass. The edges are clean-stitched; no scalloping or frills or ribbons.

Brady steps back, admires his handiwork. "Oh, I do have good taste."

Sam can't think of anything to say to this.

"Hmmm...just a few more touches, I think. Minimalism is the way to go here." He walks over and Sam can hear him rummaging in the bags. "No need to gild the lily. Ah, there we are."

When he steps back in front of Sam there's some strips of leather in his hand. Slender, black, no more than half an inch thick. He lays it across Sam's chest. There are three straps radiating off of a greyish-black ( _gunmetal?_ ) ring, a single rivet of the same color holding each in place. There are two shorter ones that his right arm is pulled through. The ring rests high on pec, just above and a few inches to the left of his underarm. One of the short straps lies across his shoulder at a slight angle, the other down beneath his arm. The longest strap slants across his chest and under his left arm, crossing about an inch or two above his left nipple. Brady moves around to the back, and Sam can feel him buckling the two chest straps together; adjusting the length of the one over his shoulder. There's no other decoration on the harness. No studs, or grommets, or stitching. The leather itself is of a matte finish; strong but supple. Only high-quality full grain for Brady, and, feeling it against his skin, Sam can't begrudge him that.

"Oh, yeah. Perfect." Brady runs his finger across the longest strap.

Sam doesn't know what to do with hands. Should he hold them behind his back? Place them flat against his thighs? He's saved from his worry as Brady grabs his wrist, and pulls him down the hall, small paper bag in his hand. 

"One more thing."

Brady leads him to the bed; sits him facing away from the mirror. He feels the plug push up inside him as he settles; tries not to squirm.

"Close your eyes."

Sam complies, holds still as Brady lifts his face so it's gently angled up as in supplication. He feels something small and firm touch his eyelid, sweep above the line of his lashes; keeps himself from flinching in surprise. It's followed by what feels like Brady's thumb, surprisingly gentle, following the same path. Then, the other eye.

"Ohphen uph."

Sam's brows furrow as he opens his eyes to see Brady bending over him, expensive-looking stick of eyeliner in his right hand, dark-smudged thumb of his other hand hovering, the gold-colored lid clenched between his lips. Sam doesn't bother to hide his smirk.

"Shyeah, yeh, y'luff now...jush shwait." He reaches up towards his mouth with his free hand, grimaces at the sight of his blackened thumb, looks around and then just spits the lid onto the bed. "You won't be laughin' later, I bet. Look up. No, just your eyes, not your whole head, dumbass."

Sam fights to keep utterly still, not blink, as he watches Brady run the liner under his eyes out of his peripheral vision. He drags again with his thumb, surprisingly gentle. "Good thing I had a little sister; all that playin' dress-up and crap. And no, don't even ask if _I_ was ever the one to wear the makeup, 'cause _you'll never know._ "

Brady steps back, cocks his head, taking in his handiwork. "Y'know, Tara was right. Smokey grey, not black. _Don't you dare make that boy look cheap, Brady. Be an affront to everything I stand for._ " He roots around in the sheets, turns up the lid and caps the pencil. "Uh, we may owe her a photo session at some point..."

Sam licks his lips. "Um, exactly how many of our friends have you roped into helping you...woo...me?"

" _Woo me??_ " Brady grins delightedly. "Oh my god, you're like a pervy little Jane Austin or something." He cackles as he drops the makeup back in its bag. "Woo you. With _fetish gear_. Fucking adorable."

"Shut up." Sam mumbles, and, _god, how many times today can he blush before he fucking passes out from his blood running every which way and back?_ "Notice you didn't answer my question, either, bastard."

Brady reaches down and pulls him up by his hands. Plants a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm a fucking lucky bastard, though." He smiles, looking Sam up and down. "C'mere."

He tugs Sam around the side of the bed, spins him around in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door.

Sam stares.

"Yeah? Am I fucking genius, or what?"

Sam stares, unable to think of a single thing he can say.

"Well, me and Tara, I have to give her some credit." He runs his hand over Sam's hip, like you would over the flank of a spooked horse. "And, honestly, I mean, it's really all about the raw material. We didn't need to add much."

And Sam looks at himself, reflected in the mirror, and, while he can agree that there wasn't much added—silk panties, a leather harness, some eyeliner, all of it fairly understated and simple compared to some of the shit he's seen in clubs before—the effect stuns him.

He's just not sure if that's good or bad.

He tries to catalog the look, the changes; turning a little in place to see as much of it as he can. There's a part of him that can't help but feel ridiculous, ungainly, can't help but see the mish-mash of leftover, incompatible parts that make up Sam Winchester, just crammed into luxe packaging. Legs too long, too skinny, too much like a girl's in shape; despite the amount he works out, despite the lean muscle underneath. And now only further emphasized by the sleek hairlessness of them, along with the cut of the underwear—not too high on the bottom, just grazing the crease of his legs in the front, but low enough on top to emphasize the bony jut of his narrow hips. His too-small waist, looking frail in comparison to his naked chest and wide shoulders, only further accented by the asymmetrical lines of black leather cutting across them. The wild dark curls of his hair, almost dainty in some places, messy and wavy in others, smooth on top. And then his face, the one part of him he has the hardest time looking at, examining for too long. 

The weird angles and planes, all discordant. Cheekbones and jaw too sharp, chin too narrow, though at least his bangs hide his huge forehead. Lips too delicate on such a wide mouth. His pointy fucking nose, target for so many fists and taunts growing up. His eyes, most of all, slanted in a way that, keeping with the theme, is misaligned with all his other features, and not really much of a color at all. Dean used to joke that he was switched out as a baby by the fairies, because no one else in their family had eyes like his. He could almost believe it now. The smudged, smokey grey lining around them makes them stand out even more, makes them look alien. Makes him look otherworldly.

He can't deny that there's something oddly elegant and dangerous about the whole effect. The boy—the man—the _creature_ looking back at him in the mirror looks, somehow, both vulnerable and poisonous. Deadly and breakable and exotic, like one of those strange plants found in only a single dark corner of a rainforest somewhere. Bizarre and so grotesque, it's actually compelling. Touch it, and you die in delirious ecstasy.

...Ok, maybe he's giving himself too much credit.

All he knows is that, despite what Brady _(and Tara, he supposes),_ had to work with, they managed to pull together something that, while not beautiful, not pretty, not _attractive_ in the way that Brady or his brother is, still manages to be... _alluring_. Or at least, he could see how some people could think so.

"...Wow." It's soft, all he can manage.

Brady grins like someone just set a whole bottle of his favorite tequila in front of him _(it's a_ sipping _tequila, Sam, don't even think of slamming that down)_. "Yeah, I think so, too." He grabs Sam by the harness and spins him around, pulling him into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and does nothing to quell Sam's erection.

"Ok..." Brady pants when he pulls away, still holding on to the straps. Licks over his lips. "I gotta go shower, get ready myself. Gotta make sure I live up to all this." He runs his thumbs over Sam's nipples. "Whatever you want to do while you wait, you do it on the bed. Wanna look at you, touch you, while I get ready. No touching yourself, though."

He smacks Sam's ass, and heads out of the bedroom. Sam turns slowly and looks into the mirror again, unfocuses his eyes enough so that he can see the blurred outline of something pretty. Only for a minute; he still gets uncomfortable looking at himself, no matter how he's decorated. Still, he thinks...he could get to like this. This dirty, exquisite protective coloring.

He wonders what else Brady could come up with, given free reign with Sam's body. Shivers.

He knows he's not going to get any more damned homework done. He sits down on the bed with his back to the headboard, spreads his legs out, wanting to make Brady happy. He hears the shower turn on down the hall. Brady's dreadful, endearing singing a minute later. Needing to do something with his hands (he doesn't want to be tempted to touch himself, he can be good), he picks up the book that Steve lent him, that he's been reading in his rare free moments. _A Prayer for Owen Meany,_ and it's good, but he knows he's not going to get through any of it today, already his eyes have skimmed over the same paragraph three times and absorbed nothing. But that's ok. He's not here for himself, won't be for the rest of tonight. He's Brady's; Brady's tool, Brady's instrument, ready to be played.

He sighs, shifts against the covers. Torn between finding a position where the plug presses against his prostate or one where it doesn't. Gives up and lays his book down on the nightstand, folds his arms behind his back. Closes his eyes. Yeah, he can be good, but sometimes it's so fucking _hard_.

Brady better hurry the fuck up.

….

A few hours later, they're on the Caltrain Express headed towards the city. Brady wrapped Sam up a second, more modest, but hardly less stylish, layer. Dark grey jeans, tighter than Sam's ever worn, because finding pants that actually fit his stupidly-long legs without being too baggy is near impossible, especially on Goodwill racks. These hug close to his skin, but they're actually long enough, too. Brady says the things they do to his ass is criminal, and Sam doesn't know about that, but the denim isn't scratchy at all and feels kind of amazing with his shaved legs. He's pretty sure they probably cost more than all the jeans he's bought in his entire life put together. He's generally been pretty reluctant to take gifts from Brady, well, really, from anybody, but no one else tries to spoil him like Brady does, anyways. These, though—he'll happily take these and hold on to them forever. He knows, like everything on him tonight, they're really more for Brady's enjoyment than his own, anyways, which makes him feel better about it.

He's also got on a long-sleeve, black v-neck shirt. It fits as snugly as the jeans, somehow managing to stretch over both his broad shoulders and his slender waist without being loose anywhere. The material is not thick—he suspects there's silk somewhere in the weave, but he refuses to look at the labels—and Sam knows the outline of the harness is clearly visible underneath it. 

Brady had offered him one of his older leather jackets to wear, but Sam could tell he was reluctant to cover him up any more, so he refused it, not even lying when he said it wasn't cold enough that he'd need it. Brady, however, would not allow him to refuse the black leather boots he'd picked up for Sam, _c'mon, do you really think I'm gonna go through all this and then let you ruin it with fucking brown...suede... or, god forbid, sneakers??_ Sam had caved and accepted them, on Brady's promise that he wouldn't start buying him anything else that was only for Sam himself, that they couldn't use together, without asking Sam first. Brady agreed, but stated that birthdays and Christmases didn't count, and Sam would accept what Brady gave him those holidays and _shut his pretty mouth._

When Brady was laying all this finery out, Sam had voiced that Brady's parents were going to cut him off soon, Brady had snorted. _I don't even spend half of what they give me. Think they expected me to get a car or never eat on the meal plan or something_ , and _dumping money on their kids is how they convince themselves they're not absolute shit people, anyways._ Sam had stopped arguing after that, let Brady spend at least 15 minutes shuffling through the bottles on his dresser; spray Sam's near-naked body strategically. After a few minutes he'd buried his nose in Sam's neck and sighed, _well, I guess this is yours now, 'cause I'll never be able to pull off 1740 like this; was made for you, really._ And then buried his nose right back in again.

The tight, expensive clothes, the all-but-visible harness, the impossible-to-hide eyeliner, a boozy scent _(like leather and smoke and sex and old books)_ radiating off his skin—it all should be making him feel conspicuous and embarrassed, but, somehow...he feels nothing but a steady thrum of arousal under an almost zen-like calm. He knows Brady handled it well; was smart about it. Starting with the letter, the instructions specific enough so that Sam would be focused on carrying them out, focused on Brady, on living up to Brady's expectations, on making Brady happy. Then the _inspection,_ which still makes something pulse inside of him just thinking about it. The decorating, even the waiting...all of it combining and building to lower Sam into a submissive state of mind before he even realized it was happening. Even now, he's fully aware that everything on his body, _in_ his body, was put there by Brady, is Brady's. 

His body itself is Brady's.

Being aware of what's been done to him doesn't lessen the effect, strangely. He admires Brady's skill in handling him, slightly in awe of the care and calculation he's put into calmly, quietly dominating Sam tonight. He finds that he's touched, that someone would put this much consideration into him.

It's sweet, really.

He looks over at his boyfriend from under his lashes, smiles to himself. Brady turned out for this, too. Sam always loves looking at him; his square jaw, strong brow, bright blue eyes, blinding white grin. Brady often treads the border between 'cute' and 'handsome', enough boyishness still in his face that it's easy for people not to take him too seriously. But when Brady is focused, intense, it sears through him. His light hair is lightly slicked back, the scruff of a few days without a shave edging his jaw. He's wearing slim-fitted, dark, almost-black pants with just a hint of luster to them. It's not leather, doesn't exactly look like it, but has a structure, natural color variation, and sheen that are similar. When Sam had run his hand down Brady's thigh in curiosity, Brady had grinned and told him it was waxed cotton. He was a little surprised; Dean and he had waxed their canvas jackets and duffle bags to waterproof them a bit each fall and spring, but they'd never looked like this. He guessed, though, that these hadn't been done with a 1200 watt mini motel hair dryer on a rickety laminate table, using scraps of paraffin candles melted in an old tin can over Sterno. 

Brady's shirt is a charcoal grey button down, tailored to fit him in a way that Sam didn't even realize was possible for clothes to fit. Brady often hides his muscled arms and chest under polos and cable knit sweaters, but Sam can see their definition just under the surface of the fabric every time he moves. He's got an understated leather jacket with clean lines over top of all of it. 

He looks gorgeous to Sam. Mouthwatering. At ease, confident, and oddly powerful.

He catches Sam looking at him, smirks. "You enjoying the view?"

Sam rolls his eyes, opens his mouth to retort, when Brady catches his chin in his right hand and pulls him into a dirty, filthy kiss. The kind where you're out of breath when it's over; strings of spit breaking as their lips pull away a few inches.

"People are watching us, Brady." Sam breathes into his mouth.

"They were already watchin' you." Brady doesn't let go of Sam's chin. "Just like I knew they would. Can't help themselves." He leans in again, bites along Sam's jaw.

Sam squirms in his seat, not trying to get away, but he plug's already sending tiny jolts through him with the movement of the train. "Can't help watchin' the show, you mean. Came cheap with their tickets."

"Oh no, you ain't cheap, baby. They know better than that."

Sam smiles, avoids the eyes of the two elderly hispanic ladies whispering to each other as they openly watch Brady chew on Sam. "Did I ever tell you I hate being called baby?"

Brady shrugs, mouths at his neck. "If you did, I didn't listen."

....

It's a little after 8:30 as they walk up a sidewalk in the Tenderloin. It's not crowded, but they pass plenty of people as they walk; some in casual clothes, some dressed up for going out, like they are.

"So, are you, uh, ever gonna tell me where we're going?"

"Yeah. Right now, cause we're there."

Sam looks around at the bodegas and cheap hotels and apartments. "Um..."

Brady gestures to an unmarked double door set back from the street, painted a deep blue. "You wanted to know which fetish clubs I frequent...this is pretty much the one. It ain't the Citadel or anything, not as famous, but...I like the vibe here. Classy without being pretentious or stuck-up. They know their shit, but don't take themselves _too_ seriously. Most of 'em won't judge you if you approach things differently than they do. Good people. You'll like 'em."

Sam blinks, feeling a small flutter of anxiety for the first time tonight. If Brady's been coming here regularly, he'll surely know people, have friends here. Brady can make friends as easily as Sam can conjugate _vado_ , charming them with that easy smile and making them feel appreciated when he listens to them. Will he have told them about Sam? Is he going to feel out of place, outclassed? Is he going to embarrass Brady, make him—

"Hey." Brady takes Sam's face in between his hands, startling him out of his racing thoughts. "I can see the friction starting in there." He gives Sam's head a gentle shake. "Stop thinkin'. I don't need you spontaneously combusting and ruinin' all my hard work."

"...Ok. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just don't worry, baby." He kisses Sam sweetly, briefly. "I got this, right? I'm gonna take care of you, tell you what to do. You just turn it all off up there for tonight, alright? 'Cause it's gonna happen either way; I'm gonna take you apart so good, you're not gonna be able to think about _anything_ in a few hours." 

Brady slides his hand down, grips Sam's balls through his too-tight jeans and silk panties, just a shade on the side of too hard. Sam takes a sharp, deep breath, then relaxes, trying to settle himself back into that zen cocoon of calm submission that Brady'd lowered him into earlier. _You're his, just give it all over to him. You don't need to do anything, it's all in his hands._

"You ok now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." And he means it.

"Perfect." Brady grins wolfishly, turns to open the blue doors, pulling Sam behind him by the hand. "Let's get going. I can't wait to show you off."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam needs to figure out if he can just walk into Brady's world, or if there's a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long-ass chapter, another day.
> 
> This time the following chapter is actually, honestly already written (the one with the good stuff, I know, I know), and I was gonna post them together, but one part of it is bugging me and needs some rework, so I decided not to wait on this one in the meantime. 
> 
> (Also, this isn't based on any real kink club or how they actually work or anything, though I tried to keep some small things genuine. It is kinda visually inspired a couple of places, though, which I'll list at the end of the chapter.)

The stairs leading down into the club are as wholly unremarkable as the doors were. Dimly lit, narrow, featureless. But very clean, unlike many of the types of clubs Sam has visited before. No stains or peeling paint, no suspicious odors. It smells pretty good, actually. Like incense; like amber and blood orange. 

Brady walks in front of him, still holding his hand. It's both comforting and a little proprietary. 

In contrast to the entrance, the room they walk into at the bottom of the stairs is anything but plain. It's still not brightly lit, but the light is warm and golden with a slight flicker from old-fashioned filament bulbs. It's open and spacious, despite the shadows—the ceiling is tall, and it's laid out a little bit like a high-end hotel lobby. There are a few clusters of seats and low couches in a deep blue leather to either side of them, and beyond each of them, a pair of dark wood doors inset with stained glass. In front of them there's a reception desk of sorts, long and low and made out of dark, burled wood and carbon-blackened iron. There are two more doors, one to either side. The walls and floors are concrete, but polished with a deep gleam to them, and dark, elegant rugs are scattered throughout the room.. Hung on the walls around the room are huge photographic prints in ornate black-enameled frames. Erotic and ethereal, they're beautifully composed shots of sex, kink, and bondage, transformed by the almost ghostly contrast of glow and shadow, which Sam recognizes as some kind of silver gelatin print from his talks with Tara. 

Sam stops just inside the entrance, Brady turning to look at him as he tugs on their joined hands. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing. I just...you told me this place wasn't, like... _fancy_ or anything." Sam hisses, leaning in. 

Brady smiles, squeezes Sam's hand. "I didn't say that. I said it wasn't stuck up, or like, all thriving on publicity and image and notoriety. And it's _not_." 

Sam looks around at the baroque opulence, tension pulling his shoulders in. It's all high quality and elegant, but still somewhat over-the-top, playing with cliche in ways that only those with large amounts of both money and taste can pull off. He shakes his head. "...I don't belong here." 

Brady's face goes serious, and he takes Sam's other hand and pulls him to a settee in the corner, sits Sam down with his back to the wall, drops onto the ottoman in front of him. He keeps Sam's right hand gently gripped in his left, but reaches forward and wraps his other hand around the back of Sam's neck, pushes fingertips in firmly to the sensitive points he knows so well, sending a shiver of pain radiating out from where they're touching. 

"Take a deep breath, Sam. Slow." 

Sam complies, eyes locked on Brady. 

"Ok, that's good, baby. Now, look. There's a couple of things I want to point out, and I want you to listen, alright?" 

He seems to be waiting for a response, so Sam nods. 

"First of all, it honestly shouldn't matter if you belong somewhere or not. I've seen you walk into situations before where a lot of people would be pissing their pants." 

Well, sure, there have been plenty of situations like that in Sam's life, but it's not like he really ever _wanted_ to rush into a nest full of ghouls or a pack of hungry adlet. And it's not like Brady ever saw any of that, anyways. "Yeah? Like what?" 

"That paper that Halston made you defend in front of the class, what was that Thompson project?" 

"Oh. The _T24.3: Love as Madness_ thing?" School hadn't even crossed his mind. It's not like it doesn't make him anxious or stressed sometimes, either, it's just...not really in the same kind of category for him. 

"Yeah, he was totally just fucking with you. He's the 'playing-with-his-food' type; he's totally made other freshmen cry before. And, like, half his grad students end up on Prozac. But you totally didn't back down, all ice cold and scathing ‘n shit." Brady smirks. "I ain't gonna say that's what made me notice you, 'cause I noticed you the first day of class, but that's what made me realize I had to talk to you or I'd regret it. Super-hot, shy, secretly badass mystery man that you were."

Sam rolls his eyes at Brady with a huff. "Oh, yeah, so badass; arguing with a professor in a 101 course. I was just pissed off, and I get stupid as fuck when I’m angry." Sam's mouth twists.

"Not to mention I had a minor freak-out right after when I realized how much of an idiot I was to make an enemy of an instructor so early in the semester. And I felt like an ass for being so self-righteous in front of the whole class."

"Oh, you didn't make an enemy of him. He totally wants to fuck you. Well, he wants to fuck every guy that walks in his classroom, but he's really got a hard-on for you, and that time was like 50% of why." Brady waves his hand. "Whatever. Off topic...But, ok, how about that time that really fucked-up, giant fucker kept harassing Melissa at that shitty dance club. Apparently, he wouldn't stop groping her, kept trying to get her alone, and the bouncers wouldn't do shit even though she kept complaining? And, like, half of us dudes were too trashed to notice what was goin' on. I couldn't find you, but when you slipped back in through the back door, don't think I didn't notice how cut up and swollen your hands were." Brady shakes his head. "He didn't come back. I only saw him once earlier in the evening, yelling at the bartender, and dude was fucking crazy. Like, on PCP or something."

"Pretty sure it was just coke." Sam laughs. 

"Whatever. I wouldn’t have tangled with him." Sam opens his mouth to argue, and Brady cuts him off. "Look, Sam, that's just two things I could think of off the top of my head. There are more, like, I kinda worry sometimes about how _not_ afraid you are of shit you should be, but...we got things to do tonight, that I really don't think you wanna miss. All I'm sayin' is you don't give yourself enough credit. For how well you deal with shit, or for how you come off to people. I see you tryin' to hunch down and blend into the background when you walk into a room, but...it doesn't really work like you think it does. People look at you, all the time. They're just careful 'bout it. 'Cause, frankly, you're intimidating as hell."

"Yeah, yeah, I know I'm fucking tall and covered in scars." Sam mutters, dropping his gaze.

"Dude. No. That's not what I'm talking about. Yeah, your height catches eyes, but that's not what keeps 'em on you. Not too many people got a face like yours, or a body like yours. But, like, beyond that, it's the way you move, you're like a goddamn predator sometimes, when you're not bein' all self-conscious. The way you're always thinkin', always takin' note; you can't really hide how fast that brain of yours works even though I know you try. You're out of most people's pay grade and they know it. They respect it."

Sam blinks at him, shakes his head with a smirk. "...I gotta be honest. I’m pretty sure you’re biased, what with all the awesome sex."

Brady laughs. "Maybe a little, but I’m not wrong, either. Anyways, point is...we don't have to go in if you don't want to. We can go out and get a few drinks over somewhere in SoMa or something. I won't be mad or anything. But if you're thinking you don't measure up to this place or somethin' like that, then put that shit out of your head. It's exactly the other way around. These bitches are lucky I'm lettin' em lay eyes on you. Or lay anything else on you, for that matter."

Despite everything, Sam gets a jolt of arousal from that statement. He looks at Brady's eyes, can tell he's being totally honest. If Sam said he wanted to leave, they'd leave and Brady wouldn't give him shit for it. He might be disappointed, but not in Sam. And, while Sam's never been to a club this opulent before, he's been to enough and he's done things at them that drew a lot of eyes. He knows the reason he's skittish is because this is Brady's place, and he doesn't want to let him down, doesn't want to fail him. But if Brady's not worried about that... 

He's put himself in Brady's hands, already. He doesn't doubt that decision at all. 

"Ok." Sam smiles softly at him. "I'm not gonna say I agree with everything you said, but, yeah...I trust you. And I can handle this. I _want_ to, too, cause, fuck...every time you say something like that I swear, my fucking...ugh, _panties_...get wet." 

Brady laughs, stands, offers his hand to Sam to pull him up. "Fantastic. Let's get going then, yeah?" 

As they approach the front desk, Sam has to wonder how Brady can consider _Sam_ intimidating, as he greets the person that staffs it with a cheerful, cocky, "Hey, Wren." 

Because Wren, they are intimidating as _fuck_. 

Wren isn't particularly short, but not tall either. maybe 5'6" or so. Slender. Pale skin—Sam's never been compelled to use the term "alabaster" before, but it's the only word that really works here. Dark, sleek, glossy hair, cut short with painfully precise edges. Strong, thick brows, impeccably groomed, over dark almond-shaped eyes. Delicate, stern mouth. _Cheekbones._

They're dressed in black, of course. Matte, stiff fabric with defined edges. The jacket is open down the center, and Wren has no nipples, just small white scars that blend into a shri yantra tattoo done in white ink that covers their whole chest and sternum. Dahlia bite piercings. 

All in all, striking. Stunning. _Intimidating._

The look they give Brady is entirely unimpressed. Not quite cold, because that would imply some level of caring. It's more that Brady, and Sam, are inconsequential, beneath their notice. 

They remain quiet, starting at Brady without comment. 

Brady's grin falters just a little. 

"Tyson." Their voice is a raspy, uninflected. 

A brief, almost imperceptible, sour look flashes over Brady's face. Sam has to bite his lip to stop his laugh from slipping out, but he can't completely hold back his smirk fighting at the corner of his lips. Luckily, Brady doesn't notice, still looking at Wren resignedly, with a bit of apprehension. Wren doesn't even blink, just holds their hand out. 

Brady gets his wallet out, and rifles through it, muttering under his breath. While he's looking down, Wren turns their eyes to Sam, and smoothly winks, not another muscle on their face moving, completely expressionless. 

Sam ducks his head to hide his grin from Brady. He sees Brady pull out a slim metal rectangle, about the size of a credit card, hand it to Wren, who takes it and slides it into a reader. 

"Welcome back to Elysium, Tyson." It's flat and rote and impersonal, but, now that he's listening, Sam can hear the tiny note of amusement underneath it. They pause slightly, turn to look at Sam. A slight smile lifts the corners of their mouth, silver studs lifting just a millimeter or two. "And you must be Mr. Winchester." 

"Sam, please. If you like." 

"Sam." They nod. "Wren." 

Sam glances at Brady, sees him staring at both of them with his mouth hanging slightly open. Sam nods back to Wren; appreciative, respectful. "Thank you, Wren." 

"Ms. Chegini will be with you shortly." Wren gestures over to seating to their left, and then promptly ignores them, turning back to a small stack of file folders on the desk. Sam snorts internally. Even the office supplies here look luxe, the files made of a thick, deep blue paper, debossed with the same crest or logo that Sam glimpsed on Brady's card. 

Once they are out of earshot, Brady turns awed, disbelieving eyes on Sam. "How the fuck did you do that??" he hisses. 

Sam plays dumb. "Do what?" 

"Wren hates _everybody_." Brady shakes his head as they sit down together on a low couch, still speaking quietly. "Well, 'hate' is a strong word. Wren is completely indifferent to and maybe slightly contemptuous of everybody else's existence. Honestly, we're all pretty sure that their working reception is partly a little joke on Avin's part—if you get through Charon over there, everything will be much better on the other side." 

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. They seem lovely to me." 

" _Lovely_." Brady repeats flatly. He shakes his head again, glances back over at Wren, who seems to have forgotten that they were ever even there. Sam doesn't miss the admiration on Brady's face. "You're insane. Gorgeous, sure. And, like...magnetic. But also absolutely _terrifying._ " 

Sam cracks a grin at that. Brady seems to have an instinctual draw towards dangerous people of all types. "Maybe a little _intimidating._ " he teases. 

Brady snorts, elbows Sam. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He looks up at Sam with some of the same admiration on his face. "Really, though. I didn't even know Wren was _capable_ of smiling. You have no idea; that was like a big fuckin' hug from anyone else. No one's gonna believe me." Brady grins. "I guess even Wren isn't immune to the Sam Winchester experience." 

Sam rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure _that's_ what it was." 

Brady hums in agreement, ignoring Sam's derision. He places his hand over Sam's where it's resting on his thigh, strokes his fingers. "So, Avin—Ms. Chagini, she's the owner—she'll take you back and talk to you. I, um, sponsored you for membership here. And I don't want you to freak out about it! For one thing, you don't have to join if you don't want to. Just, hear her out first. Ask questions. Totally up to you. You can come as my guest any time once you're vetted if you decide not to join. And, secondly, that's just how it works here. Anyone who wants to join has to get sponsored by an existing member; I had to have one, too. Keeps the creeps and abusers out; the people who can't follow the rules. She's like, really committed to people having a place where they can play how they want, sometimes even stuff that the rest of the community doesn't really like to acknowledge. And that means making sure it's safe in all the ways it can be, y'know?" 

"Yeah, I do." Sam replies, thoughtful. "And I can totally respect that. Some places...don't much care about that. Just about whether they can be held liable if somethin' goes wrong. But, uh...just me? You won't be with me?" 

"Oh, no. Yeah, no, definitely not. She won't let anyone join that doesn't allow their partner to talk alone with someone who's gonna be responsible for their wellbeing. Wants to make sure they're not being coerced, or pressured and intimidated, right?" Brady rubs Sam's thigh reassuringly. "Anyways, don't worry about the interview. Avi is incredibly cool. You'll love her." He grins. "And she'll love you, of course, like everyone does." 

Sam scoffs. "You have no idea how far off the mark you are with that shit." 

Before Brady can reply, they hear a firm, reassuring voice behind them, laced through with an accent. "Good evening, Brady." 

Brady and Sam both stand and turn around. Brady strides around the couch and folds the diminutive woman standing there in an enveloping hug. She hugs him back with a fond smile. 

"Good to see ya, Avi." 

"You too, Brady, as always." She steps back, looks at Sam. "And this must be Sam." 

She's a striking woman. While short and slightly built, she carries herself with an innate aura of authority and self-assurance. It's hard to guess her exact age; it's clear she takes excellent care of herself and her appearance, but Sam would guess maybe somewhere in her late fifties based on the planes of her face, the crinkle of laugh-lines around her eyes, the streaks of white in her dark hair. Her skin is smooth and dark, her eyes large and the color of teak. She has a strong, straight nose and narrow face. She's dressed simply in a sleeveless tunic and tailored matte satin pants; all charcoal grey. Tattoos twine down her forearms. 

All Sam can think is _powerful_ , _elegant_. 

"Yes, m'am." 

"So polite. Please, call me Avin, or Avi." Her smile no less warm than before. 

"Ok, Avin," he replies softly, not quite ready to be that familiar with this _intimidating_ woman. 

She looks at Brady, a question on her face, and he nods. She turns to Sam with the same expression, clearly expecting an answer of some sort, so he nods, slowly. She studies his face, asks, "Is contact ok with you? Is it alright if I touch you?" 

He blinks, feels himself blush a little ( _dammit, now that Brady keeps pointing that out, he can't seem to stop_ ) and nods with a sheepish smile. "Yeah, that's, um, fine. Thank you." 

She reaches forward, takes his hand in hers, shakes it once. Sam hesitates, and then takes a chance, and murmurs, " Hamāzor." 

She blinks once, the only sign of surprise, then her smile turns a bit softer. "Hamāzor," and then grasps his hand between both of hers. Her grip is strong, but not forceful. He finds himself grounded, soothed by the warmth of her hands enveloping his. "I've been looking forward to meeting you. Brady's told me so much about you." 

"Oh. I, um...I'm..." 

"Don't worry about it, Sam." Her smile turns conspiratorial. "I know how fond Brady is of 'surprises'." 

"Oh, god, tell me about it." Sam huffs, with an eye roll. 

"Hey!" Brady protests with no real offense. "No ganging up on me!" 

"You can take it." She pats Sam's hand before letting go, and then strides over to pick up one of those blue folders that Wren has placed on the end of the reception desk. "Sam, would you like to come with me?" 

"Yes, m'—Avin." He spares a glance back at Brady, who's standing, relaxed and smiling. 

"See ya in a bit, baby." 

Sam just nods, with a small smile, and then turns to follow the club's owner through the door on the right. As he passes through, he notices that the stained glass panel depicts a naked man with a beard, erect, holding a sickle in his hand. Behind him is coiled a huge dragon, each scale a different color of deep blue or charcoal black. Cronus, likely. Apt, if a little disconcerting in light of the myth. 

There's only one door on the left side of the hallway she leads him down, and that's the one that Avin opens. She walks in first, Sam following behind, and warm lights illuminate slowly at a wave of her hand. The room is large, longer than it is wide. In front of him, running the length of it, the wall is made of dark glass, opaque. On the far end, to his right, there's a set of simple doors made from a mottled steel. The rest of the room is surprisingly unfussy, filled with a few seating groups of comfortable-looking furniture in creams and warm greys, with accents of pillows and throws with the familiar dark blue that seems to run throughout the club. There are low tables scattered throughout the room, and a larger table with chairs around it that seems a little informal for a conference table, all in the pale tones of driftwood. 

Avin leads him to the far left of the room, gestures for him to choose a seat. He picks an overstuffed club chair with its back to the wall, facing the black glass. She sits in a matching chair angled toward his at his right, placing the folder on the table in front of them. 

She leans back in her chair, looking relaxed and comfortable and self-contained. 

"So, Sam. It would appear that you're another one of those surprises Brady loves so much. I'm guessing you are not Mazdayasna yourself." Her look isn't challenging so much as pleased. 

"I, um, I'm sorry if I offended you or anything..." 

"Not at all. I'll admit I wasn't expecting that. Not too many teenage white boys greeting me in traditional fashion these days. Although, I'm not exactly traditional myself, anymore, either." She looks amused. "May I ask, how did you know?" 

"Well, I guessed, actually...mostly your tattoos." He gestures. "I wasn't quite sure if that was a, like, stylized Faravahar, but then I saw the Atar, and the cypress tree, and, well, with your accent..." He shrugs. "I took a chance?" 

"Hmmm. You notice a lot, don't you?" She doesn't seem to expect an answer, so Sam doesn't. "Well, first off, I want to assure you that this isn't really an interview, whatever Brady might have said. Certainly, I want to find out if joining here would be a good fit for you. But I also want you to see if we're what you want, as well. And with no pressure. You've been vetted to be welcome as a guest at any time, no matter what you decide. So, this should be more of a dialogue, a getting to know you. As well as a bit of an orientation. Please, I want you to feel comfortable asking me questions at any point. Tell me what you think. Argue with me if you think I am wrong." She cocks her head, studies him. "Something tells me, despite your proclivities, you are not disinclined to arguing when you need to." 

Sam gives her a lopsided smile. "Well, I am planning on studying law." 

"So maybe not only when you need to, hmmm? I bet you are quite a challenge at times." Her smile is a little sharper. He doesn't feel like he's being solicited or leered at, just appreciated, apprised. "I think, before I tell you about the club, I will tell you a little about me, and you can do the same. You seem to be the type to understand that it's the people that make a place what it is, yes?" 

Sam nods and sits back in his chair, attentive. 

They don't talk about themselves for very long, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, but it's revealing, and fascinating, and honest. He learns a bit about her past, how she ended up here, in America, in San Francisco. Why she decided to open up an exclusive kink club. 

He gets the feeling that she views the club and its members as a kind of family to some degree, which makes sense to him with how she's so careful about whom she allows to be part of it. Her own family history, which she touched briefly on, hints at so much tragedy that Sam can't help but empathize and understand where she's coming from. He also learns she's got a subtle, wicked sense of humor and a mind like razor blades. 

Sam had long ago given up on having any kind of mother-figure and his life, and he has no intentions of making her one. But, if he had to pick, she'd certainly be high on the list. 

He certainly hopes he might be able to earn her friendship and trust, though. 

Where trust is concerned, Sam's surprised to find how easily she earns his. He doesn't spill everything to her, of course. But he does end up telling her more about his life with his family than he has told anyone here yet. Maybe not more than Brady, and maybe not the same things, but nearly as much. 

After their discussion he feels much more settled and less anxious. Less worried about embarrassing Brady, himself. 

She goes over the club's rules and expectations and services with him next. He's impressed—there's a lot of care that's been taken to make sure everyone is safe, while giving them room to do decidedly unsafe things if they want to. Some of them are expected and common (a few of the places Sam has visited before were a little less...underground...than others, and had strict rules) and some more unusual, but all obviously well thought out and considered. 

No fucking in the bar; keep it to the west end of the main room which is set up for scenes, or to the dungeons (there are both public and private rooms available). Both verbal and non-verbal safewords must be immediately respected, and any violation of this rule is not to be brushed off, and results in immediate short-term suspension and review of the offending member. If it was due to honest error (such as not being able to hear or see the signal), both parties must attend a session to learn how to better communicate and monitor situations, and the club's own policies are reviewed to see if it can be prevented better in the future. If it was deliberate, or a repeat pattern of violations is shown, then membership will be rescinded and the person banned permanently. 

He's instructed on how to identify the dungeon masters by their armbands, along with showing him pictures of each of them—which are posted within the club, too. He's told he should come to them with any concerns or questions, or if he has issues with other members or guests. If it's something they can't handle, they will get Wren or the manager on duty. If he's not comfortable discussing the problem with them, he can talk directly to Avin, or even Wren ( _it's unfortunate so many members are cowed by them, they really have exceptional discernment and are excellent at conflict resolution_ ). 

Pretty much all of the club's equipment and tools and toys are available for use by members and their guests. Each item has a badge attached with the club's logo. If the tag is gunmetal ( _what the fuck is with gunmetal today, anyways?_ ) then it can be used by any member. If it's cobalt, then it requires special permission, testing, and or training to use. Anything with a black tag is reserved for employees or featured visiting performers. 

He'll be given a wrist band, a temporary one for now, but a personal one if he chooses to join, on which he can add tags that signify his preferences and interests for his visit. Then she opens the folder, and pulls out several sheets of paper. 

First, he fills out the lists of limits and likes, copies of which will be available to other members he decides to play with. She gives him a piercing look after seeing the brevity of his limits; not judging, but assessing. She nods and then moves on to safe words and gestures, as well as emergency contacts. They go over the releases (she seems delighted when Sam actually reads through all 4 pages before signing, asking a few questions along the way, _far, far too few do that, even the lawyers, often, skim over things_ ), the limited medical history, and then the membership contract. 

She's upfront with him about the cost and what those fees deliver to the members. Sam tries to hide the mild shock he hears at the price, but Avin sees right through him. 

"Brady has arranged to cover the membership fees if you choose to join." 

Sam swallows. "I can't— that's too..." He shakes his head. The paper trembles a little in his hands. 

She takes the contract from him and lays it on the table, takes both his hands in hers. "Sam, this is something Brady _wants_ to do for you. Not something he feels obligated to, and not something he wants you to feel like you have to do for him, either." 

"I know. I know...I just..." He gives a feeble laugh. "I don't know if everything I've _ever owned_ put together would add up to, like, half a year here." He's not even sure that's an exaggeration. 

"It's also nothing to be ashamed of. We keep our prices higher, because we want to make sure that the people that come here are committed to making and keeping a good community in this club. We also want to be able to continue to provide the kind of services and resources that we do, the quality and consistency we think are worthwhile. But, we understand that it shouldn't be available only to those with the money to afford it, nor would we want to allow only the wealthy into our club. That's not the kind of place we wanted to build." 

She smiles, reassuring. "Many of our paying members, if not most, are patrons of at least one other member. It's much more common than you think. Maybe a little more common for subs to be funded, perhaps." She pauses, tips her head back and forth. "Or dominants in findom dynamics. But not exclusive to either. Several doms are with subs or partners who have more means than they do, and are their patrons, and there is no shame for them. And some choose to fund the membership of a friend, or just someone in the scene who they think will fit well here." 

"And you think I'd be a good fit here?" 

"I do." Avin's tone is straightforward and unequivocal. Then she smiles and flips open the folder, taps a standard yellow post-it note on the inside cover, with a small smiley face drawn on it. "It appears that Wren does, as well." 

He gapes at the note, then bursts into a laugh. "Do they do this for all your applicants?" 

"Yes, I value their opinion highly; and, despite this being based on first impressions, their instinct is rarely wrong. And they also are a minority partner in the club. Several of my long-term employees are. Usually I do not get such an enthusiastic endorsement, though." She mimes a flat-mouthed expression, then leans forward covertly. "Brady got a smile, too. But don't tell him. It will just go to his head." 

Sam smirks. "Their secrets are safe with me." 

After they're finished with everything, she leads him back down the hallway towards the lobby, letting him know that Brady should be waiting for him in the _staging room_. Even though they went through so much in their discussion, he's surprised to realize the whole thing took less than 45 minutes. 

Sam feels some nerves creep back up into his belly, then. But not anxiety like before; now it's anticipation of what's to come. 

In front of the door to the left of the reception desk, Avin stops and turns to Sam, wrapping him in a hug. She only comes up to his chest, but he feels like he's the one being held. It's unexpected, but not unwelcome. 

"Enjoy your night, Sam. I hope to see you again soon." 

.......... 

The "staging room" has a lounge of its own, pretty much a mini version of the front lobby. Brady's sprawled across yet another couch, this one a deep blue velvet, booted feet hanging off the arm, reading a book. 

Sam stops inside the doorway, looks around. "This place is ridiculous." 

Brady grins at him. "That's kinda the point, I think. It's everything most people think a high-end sex club is supposed to look like from movies and shit, but no one here really gives a fuck about the..." He waves his hand around the room. "Ambiance, or whatever. What we _do_ here is what matters." 

Sam walks over, straddles Brady's legs before he can get up. Brady drops his book onto his chest, his hands going immediately to Sam's hips. Sam bends forward and kisses him. Brady's hands drift up to his hair, but the kiss remains gentle, sweet. 

Sam pulls back, looking down at Brady. It's clear he wants to ask, but isn't going to push. 

"So, yes." 

"Yes?" 

"I joined. You can stop worrying." He pushes up off Brady's lap before he can get a grip on Sam's hips again. "C'mon. I don't think you brought me here to spend all night in the lobby." 

"No. No, I did not." Brady grins, pulling himself up from the couch. Sam follows Brady through the door at the back of the room into what looks like the locker room of a high-end gym, bright and clean with white herringbone tile and pale wood. "Isn't Avi great?" 

"Yeah, she really is. It's kinda crazy, everything she went through to get here, and she's just...so put together, so _strong_ , even after all that." 

Brady raises an eyebrow at him. "Huh, she really opened up to you for your first meeting, it sounds like. Some people who have been here a while don't even really know her history." 

He spins the lock of a full-height locker fronted with maple veneer. Sam absently eyes the locks; notices they are a high-security brand of Group 2 locks, the type that can't really be cracked with traditional methods, but can be manipulated. If you have hours and hours on hand. And maybe some graph paper. And a lot of patience. 

Avin really values her members' privacy. 

Sam shrugs. "I think she just knew it would put me at ease. Like, not feel like it was so one-sided." 

"Yeah, she's really good at reading people like that." Brady's voice is admiring. "Understanding them." 

There's a lot more in Brady's locker than Sam expected. Some clothes, personal hygiene items. But also a fair number of toys and tools on the hooks and velvet-lined shelves, too. Sam shivers a bit when he sees what looks like a speculum, resting next to a dental retractor and a pair of forceps. All shiny silver metal, well cared-for. 

Brady notices, grins at him. "What, are you surprised? That whole shelf is for medical play." He wags his eyebrows. "I mean, it's inevitable, what with my future career and family and all the mommy issues I have, right?" Brady laughs at the look Sam gives him, starts rummaging through a drawer full of accessories. "Go ahead. You can look at anything in here, and it's yours to use if you want. I'll give you my locker combo later. Though they'll have one for you, too, next time you come." 

Sam reaches forward, runs his fingers over a set of wartenberg wheels, a stethoscope, a neatly boxed tens unit, a box of black nitrile gloves. He picks up a deep red leather case the size of a motel-drawer bible, unzips it to find two sets of graduated urethral sounds, a different shape profile nestled on each side of the case. 

He looks up at Brady to see him watching Sam with real hunger. He just sucks his lower lip into his mouth, though, and gently lifts the case from Sam's hands, zips it up. "Don't tempt me. Another night." He grins, then, with that stupid, boyish, taunting look that Sam loves so much. "Although, we could bring those home with us, I suppose." 

Sam clears his throat, tries to shift to ease the tightness in his pants. "Yeah...um, yes. That sounds good." 

Brady snickers. "Why don't you go ahead and start taking those off before you poke a hole in them? You're not gonna need 'em. Leave the panties on though." 

Sam rolls his eyes and sits down to start working on his fancy new boots. He pulls his shirt off, shimmies out of his tight jeans. Just as he's standing back up with them in his hands, he feels something cool and smooth slide around his ribs from behind. He looks down to see Brady's hands, encased in short, tight, black leather gloves. They slide up his chest, run lightly over his nipples. 

Sam did not just whimper. But he also couldn't tell you exactly why the image is making him drool. 

Brady nestles in close behind him, body pressed to Sam's back, black-leather adorned fingers playing idly with his nipples. He mouths at Sam's neck, murmurs into his ear. 

"So, I know we've talked about it, about me sharing you, about me letting other people have you." Brady bites at the corner of Sam's jaw. "I wanna do that tonight. I wanna see 'em touch you, fuck you, use you." 

Sam's breath stutters. They've talked about it over the past week, definitely; the different ways it could happen, what would be the limits. And Sam's said he's interested. But he's never been quite sure if it's just a fantasy for Brady, or if he'd actually want to go through with it. Brady's possessive of Sam in a lot of ways, he's made it clear Sam's _his_. But it's also clear that when Brady owns something, he likes to share it. Brady's always been generous with his things. As long as he's the one who gets to decide. 

And he also seems to love to see Sam objectified, used. They haven't had time to try much yet, just some cockwarming when Sam finished up with his studying early one evening. Brady couldn't seem to get over _'how good Sam looks with a cock in his mouth.'_

And Sam...Sam wants it. And it's not like he hasn't had multiple partners at a time before. But it was always on his own terms. This? He knows he shouldn't want it, knows he's not supposed to let his boyfriend give a room full of people permission to fuck him while he watches and participates. Knows he shouldn't let another person have this kind of power and control over him. Not again. 

But, fuck, does Sam _want_ it. 

"Yeah...yeah, I'm good with that..." He breathes out. 

Brady pulls his mouth back from where he's scraping his teeth over Sam's neck. His voice is a little more serious this time. "Sam, we won't do this, I don't wanna do this, unless you _really_ want to. Not just ‘cause you think it will make me happy." 

Sam grabs Brady's left hand and brings it down to his crotch, where he's rock hard. "Um, yeah, I kinda _really_ want this" 

"You're so good, aren't you, baby?" He squeezes Sam's balls, not quite hard enough to hurt. "You ok with giving that up to me? Letting me decide? Even if it's, like, free use for anyone I want?" 

'Yeah...yeah. Want you to." Sam rasps. 

"Fuck..." Brady spins Sam around, kisses him hot and dirty, pulls back. "Still, you want to stop at any point, you want someone, anyone, to stop touching you, even if it's me, you safeword and we stop. I promise." 

"I know. I trust you." 

Brady kisses him again, lets him go a little reluctantly, picks up a plastic bracelet and a handful of enamel tags. "We should get this on you before we go out. You'll get your own next time we come in." He shakes the stiff blue leather band around his own wrist. "You know what the tags are for? You good with these?" 

Sam runs his fingers over the ones Brady's picked out, lingering on the one that gives anyone permission to touch him, and the one that lets anyone fuck him. "Yeah, these are fine." 

"Well, we won't get to that right away, anyways." Brady snaps the tags in, buckles the band around Sam's wrist. "Need a little warm up. Got a surprise for you, first." 

" _Another_ one?? Jesus, Brady, can't you just do something, like, straightforward for once?" Sam rolls his eyes. 

Sam hears a deep chuckle behind him. "Sounds like he knows you pretty well, huh, Brady?" 

"A little too well, I think." Brady huffs. 

Sam turns to see a huge naked man, walking out from what he's guessing is the shower room. There's drops of water in his dark, tight curls, on his head and on his chest and groin. He's got a handful of leather bunched in his hand, and his grin is a bright slash in his dark, stubbled face. Hard to place his exact age, maybe late, mid thirties. He drops the leather on a console table next to the bench near Sam and Brady. 

"You just get off work, Les?" 

"Yeah, it was a late one today. Almost decided not to come out tonight." His eyes rove over Sam for more than a few seconds in open appraisal. "Glad I did now, though. He yours?" 

Brady is undeniably smug. "Yep. He's mine." 

Les raises an eyebrow, looks a question at Brady. Brady smiles and nods. 

"You must be Sam, then." Les grins and moves forward, crowding into Sam's space with a hand extended. Sam just starts to lift his hand in return and, instead, finds his head gripped in this guy's giant hands. He's tall enough to look Sam straight in the eyes, maybe a little taller than Sam's own nearly-six-two. His stare is intense, but it's not a challenge or rebuke, more an invitation, an assessment. Sam doesn't look away, lets his gaze remain open, heated. 

Les smirks, rumbles low, "Brady may have told me a little bit about how he wanted to introduce you to us. That what you want, too, boy?" 

"Yes, sir." falls right out of Sam's mouth without thinking, and he can feel a slight flush burn over his cheeks immediately. 

Les's grin gets wider, more ravenous. "Oh, Brady. they're gonna devour this one." 

He keeps one hand wrapped around Sam's jaw, holding his head in place, as his other starts roaming his way down Sam's body; down his neck, brutal twist of a nipple, thumb digging a bruise into his hip, A brush over the still-healing brand peeking out from the top of his panties. The hand creeping around to grip his ass, pulling one side open roughly, pressing its fingers into the cleft, against the base of the plug. 

Sam keeps his body loose, responsive, but makes sure to maintain his form. No flinching away; legs sturdy, arms relaxed at his sides. Lifts his chin to give Les access to lick at his neck when there's slight pressure applied under his jaw with the thumb resting there. 

Les pulls Sam's face to his, fucks his mouth with his tongue, presses rhythmically, unforgivingly against the plug in his ass. When he pulls away an eternal minute later, Sam's panting a little, and his lips feel bruised, but he's exactly where he's been put, not a millimeter out of place. Les looks at him and licks his lips. then turns him around by his shoulders. He feels a hand run over his ass, evaluating. A rough squeeze, a low whistle. 

"Had to see if it looked as good as it feels." The back of his panties are pulled to the side, a finger runs around his rim just under the base of the plug. "Damn Brady, honestly, way you talked this one up, I really thought it was just a case of _daddy's first sub_ , y' know? Some cute little forgettable twink, let you take a paddle to him, thinks nipple clamps are hardcore, and you figured it was _love_." He laughs. "I mean, I'll admit, I might have been projecting a bit there, from personal experience." 

Brady laughs, too. "You still do like your nipple clamps, though." 

"And you're still a little bitch" Les chuckles. Sam feels the hand move down to his thighs, where he knows there's still faint welts from Brady's belt making another appearance on Tuesday night, presses into them. It then moves up to his back, traces across some older scars. "But this one, damn, he's quite a haul. Knows how to hold himself, responsive as fuck. seen some hard use." The hand drifts down to his ass again, softer this time, almost caressing. "Gorgeous, too." 

"Yeah, I know." And there's no mistaking the pride in Brady's voice. 

Sam is turned back around, a brief, chaste kiss pressed to his mouth, almost like a thank you. He's gently pushed towards Brady, who pulls Sam in, hip pressed up against his ass, arm slung around his waist. 

Les grins "Sure you can handle him?" 

Sam can feel Brady's chuckle rumble through his back. "Oh, yeah. I'm sure about that." 

"Shame" Les turns, starts the painstaking process of pulling a pair of tight fitting leather pants on. "Well, I'll see you two out there later, I'm sure." 

"No doubt." 

As Brady and Sam are leaving the locker room, Brady's arm still resting casually, possessively, around his hip, Sam says "He seems nice." 

Brady looks at Sam, shakes his head, and breaks out laughing. 

"What? He _does_." 

" _Nice._ " Brady shakes his head again, smiles at Sam. "He's, like, a total monster most of the time. I mean, mostly in a good way, but he doesn't hold back. At all. And you think he's _nice_. I can't believe I didn't make you up, sometimes, you're so fucking ridiculous." He pats Sam's cheek. "But adorable. C'mon. there's a lot of people you need to meet tonight. Some of them are even _nicer_." 

"I hate you" Sam grumbles. 

"I know, baby. I know" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Places I took some visual inspiration from, in case you're interested:
> 
> The Armory, SF: [www.armoryclub.com](http://www.armoryclub.com/)  
> The Edison, LA: [theneverlands.com/edison/#gallery-1-1](https://theneverlands.com/edison/#gallery-1-1)  
> The Armory, MNPLS (not associated with the first one): [armorymn.com/premium-experience](https://armorymn.com/premium-experience/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Sam doesn't mind being left hanging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/3 of Sam's night at Elysium (more eventful than the last chapter).

Sam's not sure what he expected; more of the same of what he saw in the lobby and staging rooms, maybe. And he's not disappointed, there is that same look and feel when they enter the actual club. Same sense of comfortable luxury, same color scheme. But, it's also a little darker here, not just in illumination, but in, as Brady put it earlier, ambiance. 

A little grittier, a little more raw. The concrete shows more wear and discoloration; there's more of that carbonized, mottled steel worked into the decor. 

The entrance lets out into the barroom, with the bar itself to the left, along with some seating, and more of a lounge to the right, with tables, couches, and booths in open alcoves. This space takes up about a third of the length of the room, and, directly in front of them, taking up the rest, is the main floor. Sam can see several hallways leading off into the shadows. Low music with an asymmetrical rhythm pulses just underneath the chatter of voices, and the occasional grunt or cry that drifts over from the other half of the room. 

Pools of warm light are scattered throughout both the bar and the main floor. Sam can see that there are multiple stations set up for play there, with various layouts and equipment. Some are open and on low stages, allowing for optimal viewing from all sides by larger crowds. Some of them are more intimate, tucked away in corners or next to low walls between large metal beams, the columns that stretch up into the ceiling, which is even higher here than in the lobby. He glimpses that there are scenes in progress on a few of the stations; a cane being brought down in an arc over at a St. Andrews Cross, someone spread out on their back over a low bench. Brady pulls him away before he can more than a peek, though, leading him over to a large alcove on the wall to his right, where three people are sitting already. 

Two men and a woman, all laid back and confident and casual, talking and laughing in the golden light. Brady stops in front of the low table and they all look over, smiling. 

"Hey, guys. Hope there's room for us." 

The woman rolls her eyes. "Like we haven't already been waiting for your sorry ass to show up, Brady." Sam likes her already. 

"Oh, fuck off, Sierra." Brady says good-naturedly. "Like you had anything better to do." 

"I can think of at least a hundred things without even trying." She honest-to-god sticks her tongue out at him, and the guy next to her snickers, and Sam blinks at the easy comradery, the friendly goofiness, of a group of people all dressed in leather and metal and latex. 

The slender guy in the middle blinks his long, dark lashes up at them. "Aren't you going to introduce us, Brady?" 

"Guys, this is Sam. Sam, the harlot over here with the red hair is Sierra. The harlot in the middle here is Emmanuel. And, of course, you already know this harlot." He gestures to their left. 

Nathan smiles knowingly up at him. "Hey there, Sam." 

Sam realizes he's gnawing a bit on his bottom lip, makes an effort to relax, smile. No one here's out to hurt him. At least, not in the ways he doesn't want them to. 

"Hi, Nathan..." 

Nathan grins, spreads his legs a bit, pats his thigh. "Come sit down." 

Sam doesn't even have to look to Brady for confirmation as he's nudged forward. He slides into the half-circle booth, lowers himself into Nathan's lap as he guides Sam down. He ends up sitting angled towards Emmanuel, who looks him over with interest. Sam's ass is planted up near Nathan's right hip, his left leg thrown over the outside of Nathan's left leg, his right leg nestled between. Sam can feel the broad muscles of Nathan's massive thigh under his, the solid weight of his arm as it curls around him, remembers suddenly and distinctly that Nathan is a wrestler on the school team. He feels goosebumps break out over his skin as Nathan's hand strokes up and down the inside of Sam's thighs. 

Sam feels Brady's heat against his back as he slides in after Sam. He ruffles the curls at the back of Sam's neck reassuringly, then stretches his arm across the back of the booth. 

"Anything exciting happen yet tonight?" 

Sierra shrugs. "Frances did a corset and some stocking seams on Ryu earlier. It was pretty." 

"Yeah, she's always so precise." Emmanuel agrees. "But, really, that's about it. It's been pretty quiet for a Friday." 

"It's still early yet, though." Nathan grins up at Sam as his fingers skim over the lace corralling his dick. "And we've got something pretty...exciting planned for tonight, don't we?" 

"Uh..." Sam hears Brady start behind him. 

Four pairs of eyes turn towards him. 

"Oh, c'mon, man. You haven't even told him yet??" Nathan shakes his head in disbelief. 

Brady holds his hands up. "No—yeah, I mean, I was planning on it!" 

"When? When you had him up on the stage?" Emmanuel asks with amusement. 

_Stage? What fucking stage?_

Brady rubs the back of his neck. "Uh, before that, of course...I just didn't want to ruin...the surprise...of where we were going tonight?" 

There's a groan from all three of them, some eye rolls. 

"You and your surprises." Sierra drops her face into her hand, shakes her head. She looks up and pins Brady with a level stare. "It's gonna get you in trouble someday." 

"I keep _telling_ him that." Sam chimes in. 

"He's smart. You should listen to him more." Emmanuel gestures at Sam. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, he's fuckin' brilliant and all, but isn't _he_ supposed to listen to _me_?" Brady's all mock-affronted. 

"Only when you're not being an idiot." Sierra smirks. 

"Oh, then I guess I should never listen to him, huh?" Sam says, at the same time Nathan spouts, "That would be never, then." 

They all break into laughter as Brady looks on with narrowed eyes. 

"You all suck." 

Sam leans over to give Brady a kiss on the cheek. "Don't pout, _Sir_. It's not a good look on you." 

Sierra beams at Sam. "Oh, I like this one. You should keep him, Brady" 

"I plan on it." He pinches Sam's ass, just for the yelp. "Though, sometimes, I'm not sure why." 

"'Cause you _love_ me." Sam taunts. 

Brady throws his head back with an over-dramatic sigh. "Yes, it's my one true burden in this life. But I'll bear it gladly." He grins up at Sam, and it's pretty soppy. 

"Oh my god. Sam, what have you done to Brady, you monster?" She looks on with delighted disgust. "Gross. He's so _happy_. And you two are so sickeningly cute, I'm gonna lose my lunch." She cuts her eyes to Nathan. "Are they always like this together?" 

Sam feels Nathan shrug behind him. "Honestly couldn't tell you. They were always attached at the hip before, but both of 'em buried so deep in denial I'm surprised they could still breathe. I think they only got together, like, a couple of weeks ago?" He looks up at Sam questioningly. 

Sam feels his face burn red. "Um...Saturday?" 

Sierra looks at them in horror. "Wait...you mean they're probably just gonna get _worse_?" 

"Wait, wait," Brady cuts in. "If you'd let me finish, I was gonna say 'I'll bear it gladly _for that ass_ '." 

"Uh-uh." 

"Yeah, no, I don't buy it either." Nathan agrees. 

"You meant that shit, don't deny it." Emmanuel chimes in. "Wait...if you got together less than a week ago...is this...your _first date_?" 

Everyone looks at them expectantly. 

Sam puts on his most innocent air. "No, no. Our first date was last Sunday. He took me to the beach. It was super romantic. We had brunch, walked on the sand, and then he fucked me while some random strangers watched and took pictures." 

Sierra looks somewhere between impressed and appalled. Emmanuel leans forward, resting with his fist under his chin, like this is the most entertaining thing he's seen a long time. "Is this true, Brady?" 

"No." Brady says sullenly. At Sam's look, he exclaims. "I didn't _fuck_ _you_!"

Sam can't keep from laughing. "You fucked my _face_. And you fingered me till I came." 

"Hey, I blew you, too." Brady mutters petulantly. 

"Brady, Brady, Brady..." Sierra shakes her head. "Ever the romantic." 

"That's what _I_ said." Sam agrees. "He wouldn't even get me a mimosa." 

"They didn't have any!" 

Nathan sighs sadly. "I should never have given you a grace period, Brady. Do you even know how to treat this boy right?" 

"You probably shouldnt've, Nate. But, your loss, and too fuckin' late, now." Brady says without rancor. He leers at Sam. "And I know _exactly_ how to treat my boy." 

Brady catches Sam's eye and, so sue them, maybe their mutual leers turn a little mushy after a moment or two. 

"Oh, fuck me, there they go with that gooey shit again." Sierra wrinkles her nose. "Quick, someone distract them, or hose them down, or something. Nate, tell Sam about what you're up to tonight. Poor kid deserves to know what he's gotten himself into with our friend Brady here." 

She turns and begins chatting with Emmanuel, leaving Sam, Brady, and Nathan to sort out their plans. 

"No respect." At Nathan's questioning glance, Brady sighs and waves him on. "No, go ahead. You know more about this stuff than me." 

"Sure." Nathan brings one meaty hand up to Sam's shoulder, turns him so that they can see each other more easily. The other hand creeps under elastic, starts rolling Sam's balls with a smooth, steady rhythm. "So, Sam, I got really into rope a few years ago. You know, traditional bondage, kinbaku, strappado...but my real specialty is suspension." 

"Oh..." Sam chews this over for a moment. "You mean...we're gonna...I'm not too...big? For suspension?" 

"Oh, no, definitely not. I hate that everyone thinks that you've got to be tiny for rigging. It's total BS. Actually, I think you've got a perfect body for the kind of suspension I like to do. It's not entirely traditional kinbaku or anything; I like to use some climbing gear sometimes, pulleys and clips and stuff, to allow me to switch positions during a session. I've had some purists give me shit for it, but.." He shrugs. "It lets me play with the body more fluidly. And you've got plenty to play with. Long limbs, strong core and back, slender. Being so tall just means more surface area to distribute the weight and spread all the pressure points out on. Brady says you're pretty flexible, too." He grins, and his fingers start to slide behind Sam's balls. Sam squirms. Just a little. "I've got a few ideas, once I...get a feel for you, see how you can bend. You'd be amazing in all of them, don't worry." 

"Damn straight." Brady agrees. 

"So," Nathan continues. "Are you good with this? Not just the suspension, the bondage, but that you'll be on display? The rig stage here is...in a pretty prominent spot." 

Sam considers it. He's not new to bondage in general, though he's never experienced anything as elaborate as what Nathan's describing. Also, there's the times he's been tied up for not-so-fun purposes. Only a few times had he been caught and restrained during actual hunts; though, in his opinion, that was a few times too many. But there was the training his father had them do; teaching them the invaluable skills of how to slip out of bindings, be it loosening knots or managing to cut the ropes. 

...And then there were the rituals, the ones that required absolute stillness. 

He decides that he won't think of that now. Bondage isn't really the issue. He likes it, despite his history. He likes being confined to the boundaries of his flesh, likes having the possibility of choice taken away, likes the way the rope feels, coiled and biting into his skin. And the suspension—that vulnerability, not even having the ground to rely on...he can't deny the attraction of that idea. 

The only issue is the visibility. 

He's fine with being watched. He gets off on it, even, to a degree. He's a little less comfortable with the idea of being the focus of a large amount of attention. But he knows elaborate rope bondage, and especially suspension, tends to attract a lot of watchers. 

But then again, so does a free-for-all gang-bang... 

"I'm really, really good with it." Sam smiles down at Nathan. "Really good." 

"Fantastic." Nathan grins at him. "We have a little while yet, maybe a half-hour or so. You ok here for now?" He pushes against the plug, rocks it back and forth. 

"Mmm-hmm." Sam hums, melts back against him a little. 

It's not like he hadn't noticed Nathan before, with his blonde hair, and pale grey eyes, and eyelashes so light they were almost white. His freckles. His broad body, and incredibly defined legs and ass. He'd just been so caught up with Brady, not willing to miss out on even the slightest chance something might happen between them. There was no way he was gonna throw it away to mess around with anyone else in their group of friends. 

He still feels that way. He doesn't _need_ anyone else but Brady. But Brady wants this, and Sam does, too, so he's not going to feel guilty about it. 

He talks with the group for a while, sitting in Nathan's lap, being idly played with, occasional touches from Brady on his shoulders and back to keep him grounded. He likes them, Brady's friends. Sierra and her expressive narrow face, full lips, and sharp golden brown eyes, her snarky, playful teasing, and her complete lack of sentimentality. Emmanuel, lithe and quiet, his reserved amusement offset by the piercing clarity with which he observes everything around him. And burly Nathan, who he'd known already, but not quite like this, his solid, affable jock persona belying a kind of thoughtful attentiveness that's almost sensual, with his ability to read Sam's body so well. 

Sam's taken a break from the conversation to observe the rest of the bar, which has grown pretty full over the time that they've sat there. As he's looking around at all the people in their various outfits (or lack of them), Emmanuel reaches over and tugs down the top of Sam's panties, revealing his brand. The skin is still a little red and lightly scabbed, but it doesn't look raw or oozy like it had the first few days. Sam had been relieved to see the lines are crisp and distinct; he thinks it's going to be beautiful once it heals. He does suspect that his spellwork last week, and possibly the influx of energy he got at Gray Whale Cove, sped up the healing process considerably. 

Emmanuel's eyebrows lift as he looks up at Sam, before glancing over at Brady. 

"Did you do this?" 

Brady breaks off his discussion with Nathan briefly to see what Emmanuel's referring to. 

"The brand? Nah." He smiles. "Sammy here can be very enterprising when left unchecked." 

Emmanuel's eyebrows furrow, examining the mark as he runs his thumb over it. "So you don't know where he got this? Who did it?" 

Brady shrugs. "It was before we were together. He hasn't said, I haven't asked." 

"Hmmm. Fair enough. It didn't seem your style, anyways." He looks up briefly at Brady. "No offense." 

"None taken." Brady turns to resume talking to Nathan, as Emmanuel continues his exploration, moving on to the collection of old scars that decorate Sam's legs. 

His hair tumbles in a mess of dark, loose curls over his straight, tapered brows. His skin is honey-colored, his face sweet; pretty, even. Fine-boned and almost fragile. But when Emmanuel looks up to meet his gaze, there's an intensity to his huge, wine-colored eyes that makes Sam shiver. 

Sierra watches the two of them size each other up, smirks. "Emmanuel here is more of a sadist than anything. He doesn't care what else you're into, as long as he can _hurt_ you." 

Emmanuel keeps up his burning stare, not looking away from Sam's eyes as his fingers continue tracing constellations along the scars scattered on Sam's leg. 

"Can I, Sam? Can I hurt you?" 

"Yeah..." Sam breathes out, mesmerized. 

Emmanuel's sudden grin is so sharp and vicious that it's a shock to see on his delicate face. He doesn't even need to say anything, just picks up his glass ( _cut crystal, of course, because what else_ ), of amber-colored whiskey, takes a sip. Turns to Brady and Nathan as he joins in their discussion, which Sam can't bring himself to follow right now. His fingers never leave Sam's skin. 

Sierra catches the slightly stunned expression on Sam's face, winks at him. "I should warn you that everyone at this table likes to make pretty boys cry." 

  
  


Eventually, Brady taps Nathan on the shoulder. "About that time, man." 

They slide out of the booth, Sierra and Emmanuel opting to follow as soon as they finish their drinks. 

Brady stops before they reach the main floor, with his hand gripping Sam's arm. "Nate, can you go finish getting set up? Sam should probably take a piss first, and I wanna get that plug out." 

"Sure. I don't think anyone else booked the rig for tonight, so take your time," 

They head back to the locker room, and as Brady's got Sam bent over the counter and is working the plug out, Sam asks, "Do y'need to reserve the equipment here?" 

"Nah. I mean, you _can_. You can reserve any of the stations or the dungeons. But people only usually bother for the stuff that takes some setup and planning, like the suspension rig or the vacuum table." He rinses the plug off as Sam stands back up. "I've actually got the Green Dungeon reserved for us for later. Though...not for _private_ use." 

As Brady's dousing the plug in disinfectant, Sam goes to empty his bladder. He guesses it would really suck to have to take a piss suspended in the air, wrapped in dozens of feet of rope. 

Before heading back out Brady takes Sam's face in his hands and kisses him deeply. "I do love you, you know." 

"Yeah, I know." 

"Brat. You ready?" 

"Always." 

The rigging stage is a large, low, rectangular platform near the center of the room. Nathan is already up there, coils of rope, large and small bamboo rods, metal rings, carabiners, and other assorted gear are laid out on the tables on either end of the stage. Above the stage, there are two broad wooden beams at different heights, hanging from the thick metal ceiling supports high above them. the higher beam appears to have pulleys attached to a track on the bottom. Brady walks Sam up the three steps to the center of the stage. 

"Nathan, sorry I didn't think of this earlier, but we should probably lose the harness, huh?" 

Nathan looks over at them. "Hmmm. Yeah. It's beautiful, but will ruin the line of the rope, and get in the way of the piercings you wanted to do." 

Sam looks at Brady with his eyebrow raised. 

"Oh, yeah." Brady says as he begins unbuckling the harness. "Before we get started, you said you're ok with needles, aren't you, babe?" 

"Um...yeah?" 

"Brady..." Nathan sighs. " _Really_??" 

"No, it's ok," Sam reassures him. "We've talked about piercing." Maybe once, but he's not going to add that detail. Needles aren't even near his list of limits. 

"Yeah, just wanted to double check." He places Sam's harness on one of the tables. "Oh, also, I asked Sierra to take some pictures for me, she's got a nice little digital camera, but I let the DMs know it's cool. No one else'll be able to do that, though, ok?" 

"Ok." 

"Oh, good idea." Nathan says as he lays one of the larger bamboo rods down near Sam's feet. "I always forget to get shots of my suspensions." 

Nathan stands with Sam in the center of the stage, has him bend and stretch as he keeps his hands on Sam's body, feeling the pliancy of his muscles. Then he has him lay down on the floor on his back, lifting each leg, bending it back as far as it will go without strain. 

"Damn, Brady, you didn't tell me he could pretty much get his knees up to his ears." 

"What can I say? M'boy's a freak. A sexy, talented freak." 

Nathan chuckles, shakes his head at Sam. "He doesn't deserve you, you know." 

Sam grins up at him. "Oh, I think we're both aware of that." 

"I heard that, bitch." 

After a few more tests, Nathan has Sam stand up again, holds his hand out. 

"Ok, pretty as they are, time for the panties to go." 

Sam glances around as he pulls them down. There aren't too many people around yet, but they are starting to draw some watchers. He spots Sierra and Emmanuel near the right of the stage. As he hands the lace and satin to Nathan, Sierra gives him another wink. He shakes his head at her and huffs. 

He's definitely not blushing. 

Nathan's in front of him again. "Ok, listen. If you have any numbness, or tingling, you let me know immediately, ok? Any pain where the ropes are putting pressure on you, or in your joints, just safeword. I'm serious, I'd rather end it and get you down than do any damage, and you can't always anticipate if that kind of thing will happen." 

Sam nods, serious and attentive. "Understood." 

"You ready?" 

Sam glances around him, at Brady, back at Nathan, nods. "Yeah." 

"Ok. I'm gonna have you kneel first." 

While Sam is kneeling, Brady brings over a long, sturdy bamboo rod, about three or four inches in diameter. Nathan instructs Sam to hold his arms out to his sides at shoulder height. The bar is then placed along the back of his shoulders. He then ties and wraps rope at five points along each arm, attaching them to the rod. The rod rests against the back of his neck and the tops of his biceps, and his wrists press against the back of the rod. Four metal rings are attached to the rod, two near the ends past his hands, two closer to his shoulders. To these, long ropes are knotted, and each of them is attached to a large ring about two feet over his head, which is already strung from a thick rope that Nathan affixed to the suspension bar above them. This allows Sam to take a little of the pressure of holding his torso up as Nathan, with Brady's assistance, continues to work on the rest of his body. 

More of a crowd gathers as Nathan keeps working, but Sam finds it hard to be distracted. At first, he's so fascinated by watching Nathan work; the deftness of his fingers and hands, the perfection of his knots ( _Dad would be jealous_ ), the way he considers and tests where the best points would be for the pressure of suspension. The artistry of it all. 

But as they progress even further, Sam finds that kind of abstract thought harder to hold on to. There's a rhythm to the way his body is being handled and worked over, parts of him moved into place and held there, while he has no choice but to be completely passive. There's also the way the bite of the rope makes him aware of every inch of skin that it touches, and all the inches between them. He feels himself starting on that drift, right on the edge of the gorgeous, calm, floaty space he can sometimes reach when he's totally taken out of his head. 

There's a harness of sorts built around his torso, but not exactly how he expected. He's wrapped tightly and elaborately around his waist and pelvis, and knots cross across the front of his abdomen and chest up to the bar his arms rest on, but his back is left bare from his waist to his neck, as are his shoulders. Carabiners with trailing ropes are clipped to the harness around his hips and waist are pulled up and attached to a second ring, hanging a few feet behind the first and still slack enough that his knees are planted firmly on the floor. 

Nathan lets out the rope that holds the crossbar for his arms up by a foot or two, and he and Brady gently lower Sam forward, laying so his lower abdomen and legs are resting on the ground. A loop is tied right above his knee. Another coil is looped around Sam's left thigh, and then the leg is bent at the knee and folded up until his heel presses up against the bottom of his ass. The rope on his thigh is then looped around his calf and knotted in place. The trailing end of the rope over his knee pulled tight and attached to the same large metal ring his arms are tied to. This leaves his folded left leg pulled out from his body, at a very revealing angle. 

His right leg has rope criss crossed at three points, one on his thigh, one above the knee, and one at the ankle. Each of these is tied to another large ring suspended from the rig in the same way that his arms and pelvis were. His foot is tied a little shorter so that his leg is gently bent at a shallow angle. 

Sam's body hangs half curved up from the floor; unable to move, spread out and vulnerable. Constrained, but open. He can feel his heartbeat everywhere the rope touches his skin. 

Nathan runs his hands down Sam's body, feeling the rope for twists or loose coils, making sure nothing is tied too tightly. He squats down in front of Sam, lifts his face in both of his hands. 

"How do you feel?" 

"Really... _good_." 

Nathan grins. "Yeah, I bet. Good, that's good. Anything hurting?" 

"No, no. Nothing. At all." Sam smiles, a little blissed out on dopamine. 

"Ok, cutie." Nathan laughs. Leans forward and gives him a brief but carnal kiss. "We're gonna lift you now." 

"'K" Sam takes a deep, slow breath. 

His arms and pelvis are lifted first, simultaneously, Brady and Nathan working in concert. He's lifted, via the pulleys, until Nathan is happy with the height, his arms maybe nine or ten inches higher than his hips. He sees them tie the excess rope off on the lower bar, holding him in place. Nathan then moves to raise his leg so they are about even with his pelvis. 

He feels hands on his body again, sliding across flesh and rope, checking pressure points and weight distribution, making sure the beautiful knotwork is holding tight. The hands move away again, seemingly satisfied, and Sam is left hanging about four feet above the platform. He slowly lifts his head and looks around him. 

There's quite a crowd built up. A few dozen people standing around, watching, talking. Lots of leather, vinyl, latex, even tulle and lace. He sees some collared and kneeling, a few leashed. He swallows and lets his head fall forward, sinking back into the feel of the ropes around him and the air beneath him. 

He doesn't know how long he hangs there, an immobile spectacle, a sculpture. It can't be long, no more than a minute or two, because he knows Nathan and Brady wouldn't leave him alone for too long without some kind of grounding, reassurance, touch. But it's enough for all the noise in the room—the chatter of the crowd, the gasps and cries and and cracks from other scenes taking place—to fade into a muted static. He can hear his breath, the thump of his heartbeat. He can feel the sweat start to bead on his skin. He's back to floating, though this time with a background hum of anticipation running under it. 

That's why when the touch between his thighs comes he gasps loudly. Only a tiny twitch of his body, though; he doesn't try to pull away, lets himself be held in place by the embrace of the rope. The hand is cool, almost cold, a firm but not bruising touch. Glancing up, Sam sees Nathan at the table in front of him, and then feels Brady's hand runs down the side of his face. But the cold hands are still exploring him from behind. 

"Hey, baby." 

Sam blinks at him, thinks maybe he smiles. He feels Brady's lips press against his temple. 

"Emmanuel's going to play a little bit. Flogger, and then the cane, ok?" Sam can't do anything but nod. "You'll love this. He's amazing with impact. Teaches about half the classes for it here." 

Sam looks up at Brady wide-eyed, croaks out, "...there are _classes_??" 

It's Brady's turn to blink, right before he throws his head back and laughs. "Only you, Sam. You've got other things to worry about right now." His grin is voracious. "I'll tell you about later, ok? You've been going to the wrong clubs, it seems." One more quick kiss to the cheek before he walks away, chuckling and shaking his head. 

Sam lets his head drop again, taking several deep breaths to center himself. He loves impact play, maybe most of all, each sharp or thudding or stinging bite serving to pull him deeper into his body and further out of his head. But he knows it will be even more intense bound and suspended like he is, feeling nothing but ropes and blows, unable to see what's coming or move his body in any way. 

And Emmanuel seems to have his own guesses as to what Sam can endure. 

It comes more quickly than he expects—the chill hands are gone, and, mere seconds later, there's a loud smack and the skin right across the back of his ass blooms with a sharp, warm sting as the tips of the leather flogger snap. It's not a light blow, not what most people would consider a warm-up or tease, but it's not exceptionally intense yet, either. It's just hard enough to make Sam's muscles twitch with pleasure. Enough to let him know what's in store for him. 

Emmanuel works him over steadily with both those stinging flicks, and the deeper, thudding blows of the whole flogger being brought down with force. He covers Sam's ass, of course, the insides of his thighs, even his legs. But one thing Sam loves about floggers is they can be used on the back if you are careful, the tips not having the kind of heavy strike that can damage kidneys or other organs. By the time the flogger stops, Sam's body feels hot and sensitive all over, even the air moving over the skin that is exposed feels blood-warm, like he can't tell where he ends and begins. 

He's so adrift in the sensation that he's completely taken by surprise by the whistling of air being split right before a thin, sharp, splitting pain slices across his rear. 

He cries out before he can help it—not fully distress, a moan that's ripped deep from him. Emmanuel doesn't play around with the cane; there's not even a warning shot, he moves right into solid, burning blows, laying stripes across his ass and thighs. Sam's certain there will be welts, likely even bruises. He's so hard, he knows he's probably dripping onto the floor, but he can't really tell. All there is are the blows of the cane, and Sam's grunts and cries. 

It's so, so good. 

He's right at his threshold, not quite ready to safeword or anything, but just near the edge where the pain would start to tip over past pleasure, when it stops. His whole body is pulsing, he feels like everyone must be able to see his flesh beating like a heart in what's visible between the binding of the ropes. Those hands come back, and the cold is soothing, maddening, as they run over his inflamed skin; appreciating, enjoying, the work that they've done there. 

A tiny, choking sob escapes him when they are taken away. Hanging here, afloat in nothing but sensation, adrift. He's never felt the need to be _touched_ so badly in his life. 

Like an answer to a prayer he couldn't even vocalize, there are touches between his legs again. His skin is so tender and aching that even just these light touches set sparks of pain spiraling out from them. But Sam's not complaining. The hands are broad and warm and callused, and some tiny little rational part of his brain offers up _Nathan_. 

Nathan, who's nice. Thoughtful, and careful—and whose fingers are sliding wet and cold, two-wide, into his hole with no mercy. 

Sam gasps and gives another full-body twitch. 

After only a minute or so the thick fingers are removed. Granted, Sam's still pretty open from wearing the plug all night, but the firm, smooth silicone that slides into his hole right after is long and curved and ribbed, and he feels every inch of it go in as his rim clutches around each protrusion. 

When it's nestled inside, he feels it _click_ , and then a persistent vibration starts up. When the tip is wriggled around to nudge right up against his prostate, he gives up a choked sob. 

_Too much._ It's not yet, but it's going to be, going to be too much soon, too soon. His body is already overstimulated, already aching and pulsing and ready to spill. 

The vibrations ratchet up in intensity and Sam whimpers. 

Brady's voice comes low in his ear as he runs his palm over Sam's shoulder. "Can you hold off for a bit, baby? I know not for the whole thing, but just for a little longer, just as long as you can..." Sam nods jerkily, unable to lift his head for too long. "Good boy. You're doing so well, just a little bit more, ok?" 

Brady moves away as the vibrator goes up in intensity. Sam pants as it brings him right _there_ , so _close_ , god, he can't hold it off any longer— 

And then it stops. It feels like everything, everywhere goes quiet. Sam hangs there, trembling, trying to bring his breath back under control. As wrecked as he is, he's still floating in a warm haze. As he drifts lower, his breath calming, the vibrations start back up again. 

Sam wants to cry. 

Maybe from happiness. Maybe frustration. He's got a real love-hate relationship with edging. 

Nathan's merciless. He brings Sam to the edge three more times, backing off right before Sam's almost unable to hold back anymore. After the fourth time, the vibrator is removed, and Sam teeters somewhere between relief and disappointment. 

He's so lost in the sensation of everything that he's feeling, that he hardly feels Brady's hand on his shoulder blade, soothing, and the swipe of a wet cloth over his back that leaves it feeling even colder when it's lifted away. _Alcohol_ , he thinks, absently. 

Even the slide of the first needle under the skin of his back is faint; barely registers. The second one is just a little bit sharper, still muffled by the endorphins running through his body. By the sixth or seventh, though, the pain is brighter, sharper, more exquisite. He catches a glimpse of Brady on his right, a long, narrow, bright silver metal... _feather?_ in his hand. One end terminates in a thick, sharp needle, the other flares out to a flattened oblong shape before tapering again. He moves out of sight, and Sam feels another tiny flare of pain, as the needle slides in at an angle from his shoulder. 

It takes him a moment to register that the echo of that pain that he's been feeling from the other side can't be Brady, as well. Blearily, he turns his head to the left as best as he's able, catches a glimpse of wild, dark curls. What he pants out is barely Emmanuel's name, but he seems to understand, moves forward, those dark, consuming eyes filling up Sam's vision as he takes Sam's face between his hands. 

He drags his thumbs under Sam's eyes, and Sam can just make out that they come away wet. 

"Gorgeous." 

It's crooned, almost sung to him, and then he's kissed. Just for a minute, maybe two, but... 

He'd never tell Brady this, or Dean, but Emmanuel's probably the best kisser that Sam's ever experienced, on sheer technical merit alone. Just the right amount of sucking, biting; the way his tongue seems to know exactly where all the nerve endings in Sam's mouth are. But also, he's so _into_ it, as intense in making sure that Sam is thoroughly kissed as he seems to be in everything else he does. 

Not to mention, he tastes _amazing_. The whiskey is in there somewhere, but there's honey, and some kind of warm spice that should be cinnamon or maybe cloves, but isn't, and something else he can't identify but wants so bad that he tries to chase after Emmanuel's mouth as he pulls away. 

Sam blinks, feeling even more like he's floating than before, almost drugged. 

"Wha...Wh'tareyou?" It's slurred and garbled and barely audible, but Emmanuel smiles that wonderfully terrible slash of a grin again. 

"Shhhh. Nothing for you to worry about, Sam Winchester." He whispers. "I don't destroy beautiful things." 

Emmanuel disappears from his field of vision and Sam's head falls back forward with a groan. 

He feels like he's spinning, falling, but in the next moment is snapped back to his body, arching his back and moaning loudly as Brady and Emmanuel manage to slide a needle into each side of the flesh alongside his spine at exactly the same moment. The synchronized sparks of pain, on top of all the other sensations he's feeling, do it finally, and Sam feels himself jerk, his body seize as he spills his orgasm all over the floor under him. 

He's aware enough to realize that the piercings don't stop with his release. He's not sure how much longer they go one, or how many they do, but by the time they're done, he probably couldn't even tell anyone his name if asked. 

He sees someone pale in front of him. Freckles. _Dean?_ No. That's....Nathan, right. He feels his hair being pulled back from his face, gathered at the back of his head, tied up. Something tied to it, cool, metal. More rope or string wrapped, tied around. It definitely won't fall out. 

That's nice. He was getting pretty sweaty, it kept sticking to his face, getting in his eyes. 

_Nathan's nice_ , he decides. 

Then, his head is pulled backwards sharply from where his hair is tied. There's movement there again, clink of metal. He can't quite follow it. But when Nathan lets go of his head again, it doesn't fall forward. It's kept up and back, his neck stretched out and bared in a curve. Tied to something? 

He feels the bamboo bar pressing against the back of his neck. He tries to shake his head out a little, but it won't move. He blinks. He's got no choice but to look at the people in the crowd in front of him, now. 

There are a lot of them. 

Thank god they're all so blurry. 

A familiar hand sweeps down his side, over his flank, soothing. 

"How are you feelin' baby?" 

" _Brady_..." Sam says, happy to see his lover. Or, at least, that's what he thinks he says. It doesn't really sound like an actual word, though. 

Brady chuckles. "That good, huh? Yeah, I could tell. Made a beautiful mess up here on the floor, in front of everyone." Brady strokes Sam's face. "Are you...you're _blushing_ again? After all that?? Or maybe you're just flushed from—nope, just got brighter. Definitely blushing. God, I love you. You're so fuckin' cute." 

He feels movement on either side of him, hands steadying as the rope that is holding the bar his arms are attached to is shortened, pulled up towards the suspension bar, until his torso arcs up vertically at the waist. Then he feels the rope attaching to his leg being loosened dropping his foot towards the ground. The ropes on from his arms to the suspension bar are shortened even more. 

At this point, Sam is suspended nearly vertical. Arms stretched to his side, head pulled back and held in place, legs in the classic Hanged Man pose. His entire body is a long, graceful curve, suspended with his toes about half-a-foot off the floor. 

There's a constellation of sharp little weights tugging on the skin of his back, metal brushing against his skin every time they move them. His thighs and ass are still singing bright and sharp with pain. He's soaked with sweat. And probably spattered with his own come. And he's pretty sure that those are runnels of blood he feels trickling down his back. 

He can't see the audience anymore, at least, with his head pulled back towards the ceiling. 

The lights over the rigging stage lower slowly until it's dim. He feels a few tugs on his hair as a pair of hands grips his chin, lowering his head gently when the clip is released. There's a bright flash of light in his face that makes him flinch and squint. 

"Sorry, sorry!" Sierra drops the camera to her side. "Didn't mean to get you in the eyes." 

Nathan's in front of him then, wrapping one arm around his hips and holding up the bar behind his arms with the other. The ropes holding him up are loosened and Nathan lowers him gently to his stomach on the floor. 

"Don't worry, I had Brady wipe up the puddle." Nathan laughs. "Brady, let's get his arms first, then you can take care of the wings and I'll get the rest of the rope." 

_Wings?_ Sam's thoughts are still a little bleary and disjointed. 

His arms are released quickly, and he feels Brady's move to his back, and there's a series of slow, tugging pulls on his back. The ropes on his legs start to be unwound, the blood flowing back and setting his skin to tingling and buzzing. 

Those cold hands are back, on his arms now, rubbing the muscles with deep, long strokes. Sam sighs happily. 

"F'lls good..." he slurs. 

"I bet it does." Emmanuel's voice is amused. "You did beautifully, Sam. Thank you." 

"Mmm...y'r welcome." 

Emmanuel moves to help Brady with the piercings on his back. Sierra snaps a few shots of them working and then squats down next to Sam. 

"Almost a shame to have to take those out. I have to give it to Brady, he really has an eye for piercings." She clicks through something on her camera. "Ah, there we go. Take a look at this." She shoves the LCD screen of the camera in front of his face. 

It's a picture of Sam, when he'd been raised vertically at the end of the session. It's from behind, at a slight angle. He's as sweaty as he imagined, his ass and thighs striped with welts, his body and neck pulled back in an arc. 

But his back. 

There's at least a few dozen needles. All long and silver, and he wasn't wrong when he thought they looked like feathers before. Stylized feathers, though, like some futuristic electric dream of a bird; smooth and flat like an oblong spearhead. They sprout from his back in a pattern that starts midway down the center of his back, creeping up and at an angle to spread out across his scapula and shoulders, almost horizontal where they're impaled along the sides of his back. The feathers sprout up and across his back like... 

"See? Wings." 

"...Wow." 

"Yeah, I mean, this camera is nothing special, and I'm not a pro or anything, but I think that picture came out pretty great." She glances down at him. "Oh, you meant the piercings...yeah, that was a good choice, what with your little, tiny waist and big shoulders. Really stunning." 

Nathan finishes untying his legs at about that point, and Sam groans as he's finally able to stretch them out. He feels cold hands rubbing out the muscles in his limbs. 

"Emmanuel's frigid little fingers feel pretty nice, don't they. Well, I'll let them get you all unwrapped and shit. Looks like Ariana has got Tommy on the bench." She pats Sam on the shoulder. "I'll see you in the Green Room later, yeah?" 

Sam mumbles as much of an affirmation as he can manage. It's not too long before all the rope has been removed and put away. Nathan and Brady help Sam up to his feet slowly, Brady sliding so Sam's arm leans on his shoulders. 

"'M, fine Brady. I can walk, y'know" 

"I know y'can, Sammy. Just...lemme help you a little, ok?" He winks. "I'll never hear the end of it if I let my boy fall on his face after a scene like that." 

Sam sighs but doesn't pull away. 

"Nathan, you good here?" 

"Yeah, dude. You guys go. I don't like anyone else puttin' my stuff away, anyways. I got a method and a place for everything, right? Unlike _some_ people I know." 

"Whatever. Spare me your OCD grumbling, Nate." He steers Sam towards the stairs. "Gonna take him to the Green Dungeon, give him about twenty minutes to rest up before we open it up." 

Brady steers him through the room to the hallway on the left. He opens the third door on the right, painted a glossy, deep emerald green, and leads him inside, closing the door behind them. Sam doesn't even really take in the room itself much, just sees the long, low, green leather couch in front of him. Groans as he sinks down onto it. 

It's really comfortable. 

"Don't lay down yet." Brady thrusts a cold bottle in his hand. "You gotta drink this first, ok?" 

Sam doesn't argue, just uncaps it and drains half of it in one go. He puts it on the table in front of him and lies down with his head in Brady's lap. "I'll finish the rest in a few minutes." 

"Ok." Brady snags a soft blanket off the back of the couch, spreads it over as much of Sam as he can reach. Leans back, runs his fingers through Sam's hair. 

"How you feelin'?" 

"Heh. Pretty...amazing, actually." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. That was...I really liked that." 

"I could tell." Brady smirks. His face turns more serious. "Are you still up for the rest of the night? 'Cause I could totally understand if not. Everyone would. That scene was pretty intense, and—" 

"Brady." 

"...yeah?" 

"I'm good. It's good." 

"Ok. Yeah..." 

Sam drifts in the feeling of Brady's fingers combing through his hair, content. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's not going to pass up on the chance to meet new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, finally. 11k+ of pretty much pure smut. Hopefully it's worth it.
> 
> Not that I mind writing all the debauchery, but next chapter will be getting the plot (oh, yes, I do actually remember that's a thing) back on track...

Sam isn't sleeping. It's just comfortable here, with his head buried in Brady's lap.

Warm. Quiet. Safe.

Fingers thread through his hair, and he drifts in a drowsy haze to the hypnotic movement. Brady doesn't let him drift for long, though. Time is kind of attenuated in his current state of mind, but it can't be more than ten minutes before there's a sharp little tug to his hair that has him cracking open his eyes.

"C'mon, baby. Only got about ten or fifteen minutes till showtime." He helps Sam sit up. "Let's get you ready."

He swallows down the rest of the water bottle as Brady steers him to the bathroom at one end of the dungeon. It's nowhere near as elaborate as the locker rooms, but it's still nice; even has a shower. Sam notices as he's pissing that the toilet has a bidet. Of course it does.

While he washes his face, trying to wake himself up a bit and take off a layer of sweat and tears and grime, Brady has him bend over so he can lube him up again.

"Believe me, you'll be happy I did this later."

"Ain't arguin' with you, am I?"

Brady also pulls out the eyeliner. "Don't laugh, bitch. I know you don't need it, but I like my things to look their prettiest before they're defiled." Sam's eye rolling gets him a smack on the arm and a _be still_.

Brady walks him back out into the room, and looks around, biting his lip. "You know all the rules? Your safeword and signal? You got any questions? You feelin' ok?"

He realizes Brady is nervous, for the first time tonight. It's incredibly sweet, his concern for Sam is clear. Sam melts a little, takes him by the shoulders. "I'm fine, Brady. Are you ok? 'Cause you've been like, _so_ solicitous of me, and I appreciate it more than I can tell you. But...the same thing goes for you. If you're having any doubts, you don't want this, we call it off." He squeezes his arms reassuringly. "You can tell 'em I backed out; I don't mind."

Brady studies Sam's face for a moment, expression going soft. He smiles; still a little nervous, maybe, but calmer, more grounded, than before. "Thank you. For, like, thinking about me, too; I mean, you always do but...I know doms have safewords, too, y'know? .Just kinda never understood why before." He pulls Sam into his arms, holds him warm. "But I'm good. Been thinking about this...for a long time, it's almost, like, _embarrassing_ how much I've thought about it. Want it bad, but not if it's gonna hurt you, not if you don't want it, too. I just...worry I got it all wrong."

"You didn't." He whispers. He wouldn't have said this was a particularly consuming fantasy of his before meeting Brady, letting someone _give him away_ like this, but he also couldn't have said that he hadn't thought about it, hadn't gotten off to the idea before. "I'm good. I'll let you know if I'm not at any point."

After a moment, Brady lets him go, maybe a little reluctantly.

"What next?"

"Well, let's get you in place before anyone starts showin' up and pawin' at you " The apprehension is gone from Brady's voice, replaced by his usual irresistible enthusiasm. "Over here."

He pushes Sam over to a large wooden ring that hangs from the ceiling near the middle of the room. It's like one of those ones that gymnasts use in the Olympics. Dean used to watch the gymnastics competitions; said he was trying to learn how to do _cool shit_ like flips and backsprings for hunts. But he knew Dean watched the ice skating, too, when Sam was in the shower, or at school.

Brady places some sleek but sturdy leather cuffs around his wrists, and his guts squirm. He's told to reach up and grasp the ring, and the cuffs are clipped to it. Brady adjusts the height until Sam can just stand flat-footed if he stretches his arms and back as far as they'll go. The door is at Sam's back. He can't see what's coming for him.

"I'll be here the whole time, 'k?" Brady says as he works. "There'll probably be other people playing in the rest of the room, too, but, don't worry—you'll get plenty of attention. And not just from me. I mean, I'll take a turn or two, but, otherwise, I ain't leaving this room or playing with anyone else tonight."

He shivers as Brady slips a blindfold over his eyes. "Don't worry if y'lose this along the way. Figure there's no way it'll stay on more than ten minutes, but figured it'd be a fun way to start off."

" _Fun_...yes." Sam adjusts his grip on the ring. "That's the word I would have used, too."

"Don't be a brat."

"You love it."

"Yeah, but I'll never admit it." He feels Brady lean in, his body warm and solid, his clothes brushing against Sam's bare skin as he kisses him. Somewhere along the way, he put the gloves on again. "I'll be right here the whole time."

The warmth disappears and he hears the door opening a few minutes later. Noises from the club filter in, though nothing too close to the door, it seems. He tracks Brady's steps as he walks back and forth near that side of the room. Pacing a little, maybe. Not so much nerves, but anticipation.

Sam knows how he feels. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Feels a drip of sweat roll down the small of his back.

After a minute or two he hears voices at the door, laughter. He's not sure how many—not a lot, not yet—but more than three, at least. He hears Brady's voice, what sounds like a slap on the back or shoulder, more laughing.

Before Sam can work himself up, there are hands on him. Several pairs, all over. Groping and prodding and pinching. There's a large, calloused pair, that feel almost familiar. A smaller pair, with longer nails, maybe feminine. A long-fingered pair that are soft, but surprisingly strong. He starts to lose track of them after a minute as more people enter the room. 

More voices, the room starts to sound more full. 

More hands.

Some of the hands are rough and brutal, some delicate and exploring. With the blindfold, with so many voices coming from every angle, he can't even rely on his senses to anticipate where the next touch will come from. There's a stinging slap to his already-sore thigh. Someone cradles his balls in their hand and gives a tug; just a small one, but firm. A pair of wet fingers ( _juniper, pine, sharp green—gin_ ) push their way between his lips, press on his tongue, pry him open, examine. His cock gets lots of attention, too—hands sliding up and down the shaft, thumbing the slit, fondling the head. Someone even slaps it, sharply, and Sam hisses, setting off delighted laughter. Nipples pinched and twisted till tears leak out of his eyes behind the blindfold. His foot lifted off the floor, the arch licked, a warm mouth closing over his toes, tongue sliding in between.

And, of course, they don't leave his hole alone, not for a second. As the first two fingers push in without preamble, he's suddenly grateful for Brady's thoughtfulness, because they're dry and thick. They slide in right up to the knuckles, find his prostate unerringly and set to rubbing tiny circles. Sam's head falls back and he moans, his sweaty grip slipping on the hoop, but he's still being groped everywhere, can't keep track of all the hands.

It doesn't stop with those two fingers, either. After they've finished tormenting him, more slide in, one after the other. Well, mostly two or three at a time. At a few points he can tell there's two people forcing their way into his ass at the same time, pulling at his rim, forcing him open, casually discussing it like produce at a farmer's market that they're thinking about buying. His prostate is played with, his walls are stroked, he's finger fucked. He knows there are whimpers coming out of his mouth now, but he can't even bring himself to care.

Suddenly, the big, broad, coarse hands he felt at the beginning are back on him, gripping him from behind, low on his thighs. His legs are folded up off the floor, bent up towards his chest, as one of the burly arms hooks under his knees. He's hefted up several inches, scrambles to keep his hold on the ring, despite being hooked to it.

He hears Les's voice rough in his ear. "You fucking ready for this, you nasty little cockslut? You wanna have your little hole fucked inside out?" There's a hard slap to his flank. "Don't matter if you do, anyway. Gonna _take it_ , boy, whether you want it or not. 'S what you're for."

Sam shivers, garbles out some desperate, agreeable noise, squirming against Les's broad chest, rubs the puncture marks on his back raw.

A softer hand grips his cheek and pulls it to the side. He feels the condom-covered, blunt head of a thick cock pushing against his hole. He gasps, and his whole body is pulled down, suddenly, forcefully, quite literally impaling him on Les's dick.

Sam wails. Hears approving laughter scattered in the room, Les's own throaty chuckle in his ear.

"Listen to you squeal, bitch. Sounds good, comin' from your pretty little mouth." Les pushes his hips up, just a sharp little jab, his cock and gravity conspiring to make Sam moan. "You feel that, huh?" 

Warm lips mouth at his ear, a wet tongue swiping the lobe, the ridges, the tip slipping inside a little. "You love it, don't you? Havin' a fat cock in your little whore hole? 'S all you think about isn't it?" Another thrust. "Gonna beg for it like a little bitch? Gonna tell everyone how much you need it? How much you want it?"

"Yeah, yeah..." Sam can barely breathe right now, but he'll beg, he'll cry for it, if that's what they want. "Yes sir, I love it, I, I want it... _need_ it. Love y'r cock, please, please _please_ fuck me. Need it so bad, use me, _fuck_ me, please sir."

He hears Les chuckle again. Pulls Sam down onto him once more, driving his cock into Sam's ass as far as it will go. And it's plenty far—while it's not exceptionally long, it's just right; long enough to press firmly against his prostate, make him writhe, make his breath stutter.

Not the longest he's taken, no...but fuck, is it _thick_. Sam wants to cry with how good it splits him open.

"Well, you beg so nicely, and I hate to see a whore go to waste..."

Les wastes no time, grips Sam's hip with his free hand, hips pumping, slamming into him, till he's bouncing up an inch or two with each thrust. He has no control, totally at the mercy of being fucked; all he can do is grip the ring for dear life, his hands slipping on every punch of Les' cock.

"Could tell the moment I saw you, this is what you live for. Isn't it, bitch? All you're good for." Les's voice drags in and out of his ear with the same brutality as his dick drags at Sam's hole.

Les doesn't let up with the stream of filth falling out of this mouth. He's very good at it, treads the line between humiliation and praise—well, no, he stomps all over both sides of the divide. But Sam doesn't mind; loves the way he's being taken apart, by words and cock both.

Les bites at his shoulder. "You're gonna be fuckin' _ruined_ by the end of the night, y'know that, boy? By the time you've taken all these cocks your hole is gonna be wrecked. Loose and fucked out. And all the cunts riding you, milking you? Y'gonna be so drained y'll never be able to get it back up again." He reaches around, yanks at Sam's achingly hard dick. "Useless piece of limp meat. This little hole's gonna be the only part of you left good for anything, and it'll be second rate when we're done with it."

Les pounds into him, and pounds, and pounds. Sam hangs helpless, folded in half and hammered into like an overgrown fleshlight. All he can do is lie cradled in Les's big arms and _get fucked_.

He feels the rhythm start to falter, Les holding Sam's ass tight to his hips for a few seconds before pulling back. He expects to feel the shudder of Les's orgasm, but instead he pulls out, dropping Sam's legs. His feet are scrabbling at the floor for purchase when he feels a splatter of warm wetness on his lower back.

He's hanging from the ring, slumped, head dropped forward. He feels the blindfold snatched off of his head. A grinning Sierra stands in front of him. She pats his face, hard enough to sting a little. 

"How ya' feelin', Sammy? Worn you out yet?"

"It's _Sam_." he grins back at her. "An' we haven' even got started yet. Brin' it on."

"That's a good boy." She reaches up and unclasps Sam's hands from the ring, catches him as he stumbles, holding him up.

"Strong." He observes, intelligently, as she manhandles and lowers him to the floor.

"Better be, I work damn hard for it." She chuckles, slaps his tit. "Be back later, _Sam_. I like my boys _real_ dirty and _real_ used. So save some for me, ok?"

Sam doesn't even have a chance to answer before his thighs are being straddled by a beautiful girl. All curves and soft, pink skin wrapped tightly in wine-colored latex. Hair falls in long chocolate waves. Round stomach like a belly dancer, thick thighs.

"Pretty thing." she notes to a guy with long, inky-blue hair and half-lidded, glassy eyes, who stands by, watching with torpid disinterest. He huffs when she says it, the look on his face making it clear he disagrees.

"Well, you do like them...prone." he drawls.

"Well, sure, but...not _everywhere_. Oh yeah, this'll work fine." 

She smirks, running her thumb up the underneath of Sam's very upright cock. He notices with an involuntary twitch that her nails are filed to sharp points. She sees where his eyes go and giggles breathily. Wraps her fingers around him, letting the sharp points sink just a little into his dick. Restrained, not enough pressure to break the skin, but Sam realizes he's holding his breath.

"Don't worry, pretty thing. I can't do anything that'll make it difficult for it to perform tonight. Its dance card is done full up." She loosens her grips, pets down his side from his ribs to his hips with her other hand. "But this skin sure would look good with some stripes."

"Here y'go, Manette." 

The bored-looking guy tosses her small matte-black square package from a bowl on the table, a glossy black logo just hitting the light as it arcs through the air. Sam recognizes the brand as she tears into the packet. Geoff and Andrew used these. Made from something non-latex; ultra-thin; water-based lubricant. Incredibly sensitive. And very expensive.

Manette wears a smug little smile as she rolls the condom down Sam's cock, careful not to pierce it with her nails. 

"So nice of dear little Brady to share his things with us rabble." 

He can feel how warm and tight and soft she is as she lowers herself, sliding down his cock. His eyes close of their own volition as he sinks into the sensation. He feels sharp points dig into his side.

"Eyes open." 

There's no teasing anymore, she's cold, commanding, imperious. There's nothing he can do but obey her.

Manette starts _using_ him, because that's entirely what she's doing, nothing else. Grinding, circling; the arcs of her hips aiming his cock just where she wants it. Drags her nails down his side, leaving shallow red trails. When she gets the angle she's looking for, her thighs contract. She raises herself up, pussy just embracing the head of his cock.

And then all hell breaks loose. She rides him hard—no, rides _his cock_. The rest of him is extraneous. She's focused on chasing her pleasure, Sam's nothing more than a tool for it. He braces his feet; tries to help as much as he can, to thrust up into her. There's a burning slash of pain on his other side.

"No." She hisses. "Toys exist to get used." 

Sam stills under her. She keeps working her hips, her movements controlled and forceful and graceful all at once. She looks over at her friend, leaning against a pillar, watching something off to his right with the same detachment as before. 

"You gonna partake, Seth? Mouth's still free."

"Nah," Seth sneers scornfully, looking back at them. "You know I don't care for whores. Besides, it's..." He gestures with one hand at Sam. "Not really...up to my standards." He blinks slowly, with a look of mild distaste. "If I'm being charitable."

Manette rolls her eyes. "Snob."

Seth looks off again as Manette renews her vicious pace. Sam doesn't react, keeps his attention on Manette as she tosses her hair back off her forehead, the sweat starting to bead up on her skin. She really is beautiful; and he knows the word lush is such a cliche for heavier women, but it's so apt in her case he can't help but think it. He admires the delicate green-blue tracery of veins in her breasts, faint, almost invisible, perfect contrast to her shell-pink nipples. He'd love to get his mouth on them, but it would probably earn him more stripes. He thinks maybe they would be worth it, would be a bonus, but decides against it. 

She doesn't seem like the type to appreciate impudence, and he also doesn't want to risk setting Seth's callous disdain off into actual enmity. They seem like the type that would delight in causing trouble for him, for Brady, for Brady's friends.

And there's nothing that Seth said or did that couldn't be passed off as the kind of debasing, demeaning taunting that's part of a scene. Sam _does_ have a tag for humiliation on his wrist. But he also knows better; isn't an idiot. Knows the difference between Brady lovingly calling him a slut, or Les teasing him about how used up and worthless he's gonna be after tonight, and the kind of blunt honesty Seth offered: that Sam, as he sees it, is unattractive; repellent even.

He really can't hold that against him. He knows what he is. Not everyone's gonna be into Sam's brand of desperation. Not gonna wanna fuck the filthy, cum-soaked slut on the floor. In fact, the far majority of those he's known would be horrified, disgusted. He feels so lucky to have found people—especially Brady, most of all—who want him for what he can offer.

And really, what Seth said is no worse, and, in many cases, far kinder, than what he's heard throughout his life. Maybe not in the same circumstances, for the same reasons, but Sam's heard about everything there is to hear about his lack of value.

Before he can get swept out of his well-fucked haze by these thoughts, there's a pair of thick, hairy thighs, sliding over his shoulders. In between them bobs an average-sized, dusky red, uncut cock—and Sam _loves_ when he gets to suck on an uncut cock—below which hang some of the largest testicles he has ever seen.

He glances up, meets the pleasantly warm, brown eyes of a middle-aged man that hits every highlight of the phrase _bear_. Beefy without being flabby, full but neatly trimmed beard, a pelt of dark hair covering his chest and trailing off down his belly.

The guy hooks his thumbs in the corners of Sam's mouth; stretches them out. 

"Open up, lovely."

He can't quite place the accent. Maybe South African? Dutch? New Zealand? 

"Oh, very nice, just right. You're a treat, aren't ya, sweetheart?"

The Bear spits in his mouth, not a drop of it missing its target. Sam, startled, does his best not to choke on it, and The Bear thoughtfully holds him open until he's swallowed it all. He removes his right hand and pats Sam's cheek, kindly.

"Now, you're gonna wanna keep opened as wide as y'can now, ok?"

The man's left hand helps press his mouth open, fingers spread across his cheek and forehead, thumb pressing his chin down. His other hand lifts his massive balls up, dangling them over Sam's gaped mouth.

 _Oh, fuck..._

He lowers them down, working them in one at a time, cramming them into a space that Sam's certain can't quite hold them, his lips stretching wide till it feels like they're going to split open. Sam gags a little when they push against the back of his throat, but manages to relax as much as he can. His tongue slips around, trying to adjust the flesh filling him, trying to keep his teeth from scraping or pinching.

"Don't even worry about the teeth, darlin'. Let's just get 'em in. We're almost there, you're doing so good..."

The thumb on his chin pulls just a little harder at his jaw, and with a final push, Sam feels his lower lip slip up against The Bear's taint.

"Oh god, oh fuck. Yes, so good, sweetheart. Such a gorgeous fucking big mouth, you take 'em so well, you do..."

Sam sips tiny breaths through his nose. His eyes water. His mouth has never felt so full, so stretched. It doesn't feel like it should be possible. He can feel the corners of his lips cracking just a tiny bit. The Bear's hands grip his head, fingers buried in the hair behind his ears, his thumbs running over the bulges of his cheeks, feeling where his balls fill him up. He's cooing praise at Sam and his pretty mouth.

Sam can't see anything but the bear's course, sparse hair leading down his belly, and his attention is consumed with just breathing, fighting the feeling of suffocation from his overfull, overstuffed mouth. But, still, he can't miss Manette clenching, contracting around him. A wave of pleasure shivers over him, causing him to convulsively swallow around the flesh in his mouth.

"Fuck." It's choked out somewhere above Sam.

He feels Manette's heat slide up off him, leaving four burning trails down the outside of each thigh as she gets up. Almost immediately, he feels someone else move in between his legs. Strong hands grip his ankles, throwing his legs up over broad shoulders. Fingers prod at his hole, no real attempt to open him up, just checking there's room enough to slam in.

Which is exactly what they do.

The staggering impact rocks Sam's body with its force. Panicked, he presses his tongue up as hard as he can, trying to prevent his jaw from being jarred and snapping shut. It's a close call, his teeth grazing the skin, and he gags a tiny bit. 

More garbled praise falls from above him.

Between his legs, someone is still driving their cock home; hard and brutal and so good. Sam clenches his stomach muscles desperately with each thrust, trying to keep his upper body and head as steady as he can. He feels someone else grab at his right hand, and it's guided to a smooth, warm cunt. He scrambles blindly with his fingers, sliding them slippery inside. Angles his fingers up as he rocks them, looking for the spot that makes her jolt, circling her clit with his thumb. 

He's just worked up a good rhythm—one that will let his hindbrain take over as much as possible to keep her satisfied, while the rest of his body battles with being overused—when he feels his left hand grasped. This time it's a cock he wraps his hand around. Starts sliding his hand up and down; steady grip, twist at the end. 

It's a good thing his eyes are already watering. He can't laugh with his mouth so full, so crying it is.

"Kevin, lookit' this, what did I fucking tell you?"

The Bear is talking to someone standing to the right of Sam's head. They have nice boots, black and shiny.

"Ah, yeah. Damn, Noah. Y'finally found another one that can fit those fuckers. Been a few years, huh?" He feels wiry fingers gripping his head, turning him towards the speaker a scant inch or so. Sam looks up through watery eyes, sees a blurred, ruddy, sandy-haired face looking down at him. "Nice." 

Kevin pats his cheek before he moves off.

The unseen guy fucking Sam hefts his legs higher, changing the angle, burying himself deeper. His whimper is muffled. He's not sure he's ever been this... _overrun_ before, ever. It's overwhelming, to say the least. But also kind of amazing.

Sam tries to do his best. Noah seems a lot more likely than Manette to appreciate participation. So he hollows out his cheeks as much as he can, applying some suction. He tries to lave Noah's balls with his tongue; he's not entirely successful, there's not much room to move in there, but he manages to wrap his tongue around the sides a little, drag the point back in between them a little. He hums, hoping the vibrations in his throat will feel good, at least.

Noah moans like a fucking pornstar, loud and unrestrained and ostentatious. It's obscene, and Sam has to keep himself from giggling hysterically or there's a good chance he'll choke. He concentrates on breathing, on working the organs in both of his hands, and is further helped along when the Unknown Fucker between his legs puts on a burst of speed and power. He's pulling out and spilling wet all over Sam's stomach before rather gently lowering his legs to the ground.

The guys he's jerking off soaks his hand not long after. The girl, he's felt her contract around his fingers a few times already, but seems to take that as a signal to wrap it up with one last wet, pulsing set of squeezes.

Sam squirms at the warmth spreading over his belly and hands, and, between that and his feeble help, Noah gets pushed over the edge. He's got the kindness to warn Sam _close your eyes, sweetheart_ before he comes all over the upper half of his face and hair.

Before Sam can even start wiping cum from his eyes, he feels hands sliding under his armpits. He's hefted up from the floor, his legs are already kind of wobbly. He doesn't have time to stumble, though. While the guy in front of him is thoughtfully wiping the mess from Sam's eyes with his thumb, another slides behind him, one arm pulling Sam's arms behind his back, the other gripping his waist. The hold on him is tight, almost callously brutal, just short of yanking his shoulders too hard.

The guy in front of him crowds into Sam's space, diving in for a kiss, his white-and-silver beard scratching the skin around Sam's mouth. While Sam's occupied with the teeth seizing his lips and tongue, his chest suddenly lights up with a pair of bright, biting aches. He moan-yelps into the hot mouth covering his.

The man pulls back with a grin, the skin around his glacially-blue eyes crinkling up. He pulls the chain between Sam's nipples with a sharp tug and the burning pressure on his nipples transforms into a deep, snapping burst of pain. Sam gasps and his dick smears wet between them.

"Clover clamps. Seems like you like those, hmmm, son?"

He pulls again and Sam can't help the mangled groan that slips out of him. The man in front of him is a charming combination of elegant and hipster, with his long silver hair pulled up into a topknot and his black linen shirt sleeves rolled up to elbows, exposing forearms covered in beautiful black ink that looks like classic woodcuts. Despite his gentlemanly looks, he's working a dirty tag team with the guy gripping Sam from behind. 

Because as Sam's eyes are rolling up in pleasure from the clamps, he doesn't notice the hand that snakes between his legs until he feels something constrict around his testicles and the base of his shaft.

He looks down to see thick black silicone tightly gripping him. A cock-and-ball ring. He whimpers, just a little. The outlook is not good for him getting to come as many times as he's probably gonna need to tonight. He kinda expected that, though. He's a little surprised he's been able to hold off this long, but he wants to make Brady proud.

Sam looks up, panting, to see Brady seated on a lounge chair. He's talking with a pair of girls, both slender, sitting on the couch to his side. One has pale skin, one ebony. Both of them sport long, sleek hair, but one girl's is bright white, and the other's gleaming black. It's pulled between them and intertwined into a thick, shared braid, dark twisting into light, that trails down to the floor at their feet.

Brady is watching Sam. His smile is hungry, proud, and proprietorial.

Emmanuel, who's sitting on a low table facing Brady and the inverse conjoined twins, turns, following Brady's eyes. Smiles knowingly at Sam, the point of his dark pink tongue darting over his lips.

Sam's twisted around, manhandled and marched over to a low, padded bench. The guy behind him lets go, shoving him into The Gentleman, who wraps an arm around him from behind and plucks idly at the chain again. The other guy lays back on the bench, ruddy skin and tiny, mean eyes; close-cropped strawberry blond hair and a weightlifter's body. His zipper's undone and his pants pulled down below his balls. He spreads his legs to either side of the bench and reaches out.

Sam's spun around once more and gripped by The Gentleman under his arms again. With one of The Meathead's hands digging into the side of his waist, he's lowered backwards carefully by the two of them. He feels the cock underneath him guided into his ass, and then both of them slide Sam down until he's firmly seated on it. Then he's pushed/pulled backwards, till he's laying with his back against The Meathead's chest.

The Gentleman smirks, grips Sam's cock, gives a squeeze. 

"Well, this looks inviting." 

He unbuttons his pants, pulling them off completely before folding the leather in half and draping it over a rack next to them.

While Sam's blinking, trying to adjust, the guy underneath him wraps one forearm across his neck. He's putting pressure on his throat—not quite enough to choke him, but enough so that if Sam moves too much, he's gonna find it hard to breathe.

"Alvaro may think you're just too fucking cute, but I think Brady's a stuck-up douchebag and you're a piece of trash." He hisses in Sam's ear; thrusts up briefly into him as if to punctuate his statement. "Still, a hole's a hole. So I don't give a fuck if you enjoy what I'm doing back here or not. All you need to worry about is if Alvaro's happy with what he's getting. Got it, cumrag?"

His arm tightens momentarily around Sam's neck. 

"Yeah." He gasps out quietly when he can breathe again. "Got it."

Nothing further is said, and shortly Alvaro is straddling Sam, sliding on a condom before positioning himself over Sam's cock and lowering himself onto it without preamble. It feels impossibly good, tight around his straining dick. 

When The Meathead starts slamming up into Sam powerfully, driving him deeper into Alavaro, and Alvaro finds his counterpoint rhythm and starts riding Sam, Sam knows that if it weren't for the cock ring, he'd be coming in no time at all.

The Meathead doesn't vary his punishing pace. And Sam's pretty sure the angle he's settled on deliberately avoids his prostate. But that's just was well, because he doesn't think The Meathead's gonna finish fucking him until Alvaro comes first.

And Alvaro, while not going slow, has a far less violent pace. He somehow manages to look dignified even while riding Sam's cock ruthlessly in the middle of a room full of people. He doesn't stop playing with the clamps, seems delighted by the way Sam's back arches when he pulls hard. He's not above clenching around him when pulling back, making his tortured cock twitch and weep.

Trapped between the sweaty body fucking up into him and the tight heat fucking down on him, his own cock strangled in silicone to keep him from coming, Sam's caught somewhere between agony and delirious pleasure. He's slipped back into the floaty, mindless space where all he's aware of is the sensations pounding through his body.

An indeterminable amount of time later, Sam feels a particularly hard yank on the clamps while Alvaro simultaneously clamps down on his cock and spills all over his stomach and chest. Like Sam suspected, The Meathead speeds up underneath him, pulls his arm back enough to cut off Sam's breathing, and shudders. Before he lets go, he leans forward and whispers.

"Not good enough to wear my cum."

Sam's pushed up unceremoniously, almost tipping over, and The Gentleman catches him by the elbows. Gives The Meathead an exasperated and annoyed glare. He leans in and gives Sam a chaste kiss and a smile.

"Thank you, darling."

He barely has time to breathe before a thick pair of arms wraps around him from behind. Looking down woozily, he recognizes the dusting of white-blond hairs and freckles. He smiles.

"Hey, Nate."

There's a nuzzle behind his ear. "Hey, cutie. You havin' fun?"

Sam laughs a little before it devolves into a small cough. "Yeah...I won't deny that..."

"Good." He rubs Sam's side comfortingly. "You let us know if you need a break, ok?"

"Ok, yeah. I will." He doesn't need a break, per se, but it's nice to rest here, just for a moment, being held by someone who gives a damn about him, at least a little. He closes his eyes and lets himself lean back into Nate.

After a moment a warm, familiar hand's sliding gently over his cheek. Sam smiles without opening his eyes.

"Brady..."

"Hey there, baby." He feels lips pressed softly against his own. "Doin' so good. You're amazing, you know that?" 

Another gentle kiss. 

"I need you to drink a little of this, ok?"

Sam opens his eyes to see Brady staring at him with his signature turned-on look, a mixture of adoration, awe, and avarice. He's holding a cold water bottle, drops beading up on the outside. Sam licks his lips and reaches out for it.

"No more than half," Brady warns. "I'll get you more later if you need it, but you don't wanna chug that right now, especially on an empty stomach.'"

Sam agrees, he knows all about cramps when you're hollow and still have a full night of exertion ahead of you. He sips about a third of the water before handing it back to Brady, who smiles.

"So damn good." He leans in, kisses Sam a little filthier than before. "You alright? Ready for more?" 

After he gets Sam's nod, he pets his cheek again. "Ok. Nate's gonna take care of you right now. I'll be over in a bit, though."

"'K"

Nate moves to his side, keeping an arm around his waist. He walks Sam over to a metal table, just below hip height. Well, a normal person's hip height, not Sam's. A series of metal rings are welded to the table in regular intervals, including the corners.

Sam stares a little stupidly at it for a moment, and then looks at Nate, snickers. "Y'really are kinda stuck on the bondage thing, aren't ya?"

Nate grins. "Brady's right. You are a brat."

Sam, loopy and unable to come up with a good retort, sticks his tongue out at Nate. Nate laughs and pushes him back against the table.

"Get up there, brat."

Sam may be a brat, but he can do what he's told, when he wants to.

He hops back on the table, and Nate helps position him and lay him down on his back. The table is about five feet long, but not too wide, so his ass hangs a bit off one end, and his head the other. His arms are stretched to his sides and narrow black nylon rope attaches the restraints on his wrists to the rings on the side of the table. Nate then attaches a matching pair of restraints to his ankles and a wider pair high on his thighs. He bends Sam's legs up and spreads them wide, and clips his ankles to the thigh bands. Then lengths of the black rope are attached from the ankle restraints to the table, pulling his folded legs even further apart and locking him in place.

Sam's head swims. The utter vulnerability and openness of this position is not lost on him at all.

Nate leans over him, near his shoulders, cups his chin in his hands. "You ok? Anything hurtin'? Too tight?"

"Ngah..." He swallows, clears his throat. "No, I'm ok."

"Alright." Nate leans in, gives him a brief kiss on the corner of his mouth. He places a piece of metal kind of shaped like the head of a ball peen hammer in Sam's right hand. "I'm gonna gag you, so if you need to safeword, or need a break or anything at all, you just knock that on the table three times. Don't worry about how loud it is or denting it or anything, ok? You got that?"

He looks Nate in the eyes, nods. "Knock thr'times. Got it."

"Good."

Nate moves away for a minute, comes back with a black leather band, attached to two metal curved triangular pieces with a wide metal ring in between them.

Spider gag, _fuck_.

He can't say that he didn't expect this.

Sam opens up without being asked, and Nate smiles as he settles the ring in his mouth, behind his teeth. The band is closed and tightened, and Sam's mouth is held wide and open for whoever wants to use it.

Nate runs his finger along his stretched-out lips. "This is tempting, but I got other plans right now."

As Nate moves away, Sam rolls his head and takes a brief look around the room. It's pretty full, but not overcrowded. As Brady had said, there's a few other scenes going on around the room, two or three pairs with one group of three. Other people are relaxing, just hanging out, talking. And no small number are watching what Nate's doing to Sam on the table.

Watching Sam.

He doesn't have time to figure out how he feels about this, because Nate's back on the other side of the table, standing between his legs—well, he'd be between them if Sam wasn't trussed up like a damned Thanksgiving turkey. Nate takes a moment to wink at him before plowing in.

Moments after, his head is gripped and pulled back, straightening out his throat. He didn't really get a glimpse of the guy's face, but he gets up close and personal with his cock, right before it's slid down his throat.

And then he's fucked.

From both ends. Hard. Relentless. And strapped down the way he is, completely unable to move...well, if he thought he felt like an object before, a human fleshlight, he had _no idea_.

Drool runs out the sides of his mouth. Tears are jarred out of his eyes. His hole pulses and clenches, his dick drools almost as much as his mouth. He whimpers, his body jerked back and forth the few inches that it can move by the pounding at both ends. He whimpers, the sound lost, muffled by the cock fucking his throat.

He doesn't know how he's going to keep from coming too much longer. If it weren't for the ring, he would have already.

The guy using his mouth has no such compunctions, pulling out before coming on Sam's neck and chest. He glances down, sees Nate still going for it down below, barely looking ruffled. 

For a moment, Sam hates him, just a little.

That's forgotten as he feels thumbs graze over his jaw, fingers grip his neck.

"Hey, baby." Sam looks up to see Brady's grinning face. "I can't resist any longer, at least for my first round. You look way too fuckin' good like this, you know that? You have any idea what this is doing to me?"

Sam just blinks at him and drools. Not much he can say. 

Maybe Brady's going to end up being a dentist.

Brady strokes his chin. "I told Nate he can have this orgasm. It looks like you need one, and I think you've probably earned one, hmmm? So don't worry; when he takes the ring off, you don't need to try and hold back."

He tries to channel his gratitude into his leaky eyes, but Brady doesn't seem to notice, because he's tilting Sam's head back and plunging in. Brady knows him, knows how to use him, but this is a little different than anything they've done yet; Sam completely unable to move or respond to Brady's use of him. He's never felt this completely owned before.

It's so fucking hot. 

Sam's beyond relieved that he's going to get to come soon.

Finally, it seems like Nate's ridiculous stamina wears out, and Sam feels the evil chunk of silicone yanked off of his cock, at the same time that Nate pulls out. The moment he feels the warmth and wetness spread over his thighs, it tips him over the edge too, and his own cum spills over his stomach, mixing with Nate's. His yell is garbled and choked by Brady's dick, and he hears Brady chuckle above him. 

Bastard.

There's barely a beat before someone takes Nate's place in Sam's ass. He's been overstimulated for what feels like hours, now he's got post-orgasm oversensitivity on top of it. The wetness streaming from his eyes turns to real tears right about the time he feels Brady thrust one last time, holding himself deep in Sam's throat before coming down it.

When he pulls out, he leans over and kisses Sam. Whispers. "I'm the only one that gets to do _that_ , though."

Sam loses track of how many times he's fucked on the table, and by whom. A girl rides his cock, reverse cowgirl, while he's also getting fucked at both ends. One guy comes in his fucking hair after fucking his mouth, and then rubs it in. By the time he realizes that no one's fucking him anymore, and he's being untied and unstrapped, he's hard again. And sore. And feels like he's floating about three feet over outside of his body.

He's pulled up onto legs that have all the structural integrity of jello. He feels loopy, delirious, drunk. Sierra's holding him up again, and he melts into her lean, muscular frame. 

"Strong Sierra..." He slurs, pats her bicep.

"Oh, god. We fucked the last few IQ points right outta you, didn't we?" She _tsks_. "Brady's gonna be _so_ disappointed. You're almost too stupid to fuck."

Sam giggles. "How many IQ points do y'need to get fucked, n'yway?"

Sierra stops, grips his chin with her free hand, looks into his eyes seriously. "Lucky for me, exactly as many as you have right now."

Sam breaks up laughing, leans in and kisses Sierra on the tip of her nose. She wrinkles it adorably; shakes her head.

"I thought you were gonna fuckin' try to _kiss_ me."

"Nah, y'd _hate_ that."

"Yeah, I would. Good boy for pickin' up on that. I guess I'll allow the nose thing, now and then. But only from you, because you're fuckin' ridiculous, and I feel sorry for you." She shakes her finger in his face. "Don't tell anyone else, though, or they'll get the wrong idea."

Sam makes a show of looking around them, noting the eyes that are taking them in. Leans in and whispers conspiratorially. "Y'r secret is safe wi'me."

"Idiot." She says, smiling.

She leads him over to the Saint Andrew's Cross on the far wall. Turns him to face it, tells him to grip the rings on the upper bars and attaches his wrist restraints. Leans down, pushing his legs wide apart, clips the ankle restraints to the lower bars. 

She stands up, presses up against him from behind. His widespread legs bring his ass right to level with her hips. 

"There you go. Totally idiot-proof. All y'gotta do is hang on and look pretty."

"Pssshh. Easy for _you_ t'say."

She reaches around and tweaks his nipple. "I swear you're like the annoying little brother I never wanted and wow I didn't even _think_ about how that would sound before I said it, christ." She pushes off of him. "I'm gonna go and get ready before you completely kill my boner, dumbass."

Sam can't help but break out into another round of giggles. Sierra doesn't _not_ make him think of an older sibling, when it comes down to it.

A minute or so later, he catches a glimpse of her striding back over out of the corner of his eye, and turns his head to take in as much as he can. She's stripped herself of her vinyl pants, and is sporting a black leather harness over her strong hips and thighs, in which is embedded a purple dildo. 

A _big_ purple dildo. Like, maybe nine or ten inches big. Girth to match. And not ten porn-inches where the extra two or three inches is a mutually agreed upon deception, but three-whole-quarters or more of a ruler. At least two-and-a-half inches longer than anything else he's taken tonight. 

It's gonna wreck him.

She grins when she sees his big eyes staring at her. "Bitten off more than you can chew, Sammy?"

He swallows. "...No...Nah, the rest was jus'...'n appetizer?"

She laughs. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

He gets a sharp smack to his ass when she steps behind him. Then another, and one more. It stings and burns and he leans his face into his arm with a soft moan. 

"Damn, it's so cute! So round, just the tiniest amount of jiggle!" Sam can feel himself turning pink. "Oh my god, you're _blushing_! Really? After everything, you little slut, _that's_ what does it?"

"Shuddup." Sam mutters into his arm.

"Tsk tsk. Such disrespect, Sammy. Shouldn't you be calling me master, or m'am?"

" _No._ "

He hears Sierra laugh again, before she grips his hips and something hard and smooth presses at his hole. His head drops forward as she slides in smoothly, pushing so far up into his guts that he feels like he can't breathe for a moment.

She pauses for a moment, her firm skin pressed against his back. She's buried deep in him, letting him feel every inch of what's about to happen.

"Giddy'up." She murmurs in his ear.

A disbelieving laugh is startled out of him right as she pulls out and slams back in. The laugh crumbles into a whimper and her fingers press deeper into his hips. The length and width of her cock and the angle she's driving into him means there's no relief for his prostate at all—it's constantly under attack, the dildo pressing against it as it pummels him. Another high-pitched noise is pulled out of him; she's playing him like a filthy violin.

She moves her hips with a swing and sway and snap that make him wonder if she's ever worked as a dancer, a stripper before. A moment after that though passes through his head, he's grateful for the fact that her pounding drives him past the point of being able to talk. He doesn't think she'd be offended, but, if he's wrong, she'd give him hell for assuming anything.

After several minutes, he takes her advice and just hangs on, letting the cross support his slack body while she fucks into him. The little noises jarring out of him would be humiliating if he could feel anything more than the _giant fucking dildo_ pushing his guts out of the way. His head droops, and he looks down...sure enough, on every thrust forward he can see movement, a bulge rising out of the skin of his stomach. The sensation, along with the image, drags a long, low moan out of him.

Sierra's got stamina, and doesn't need to worry about coming—he's already heard her do that at least once, figures it's probably double-ended. But of course, despite that, she can just keep on going. After what feels like an hour, but can't be more than ten minutes, Sam's crying again. No sobs, of course, but gasping breaths intermixed with groans and punctuated with whimpers. Tears stream down his face into his open mouth.

"Had enough, pretty boy?"

The noise that he makes must answer her question, because she huffs out a winded laugh, speeds up her hips for the next few thrusts, aiming for a direct hit on his prostate, and then stills, buried to the hilt, when he lets out a particularly pathetic wail-moan.

He feels her sweaty forehead drop onto his shoulder as she catches her breath, her hand loosens and rubs up and down his hip.

"That was fun. We should do that again sometime."

He makes a strangled half-sob, half-laugh. But it's not disagreement.

She pulls out slowly and it's almost as overwhelming as her sinking in, all the firm ridges and protrusions catching on his walls and rim as she moves. When she's out, she gives him a stinging tap on his ass and moves away. 

He feels cold air on his back, but only for a moment.

There's a hand on his shoulder, that feels like it matches that one that slides in between his cheeks. Three fingers slide into his ass. At the same time, a slender guy with a shaved head and so many tattoos below his chin Sam's pretty sure he's sporting a whole body suit sinks to his knees in front of Sam under the axis of the cross. He looks up with a smirk before swallowing Sam down.

The work in sync, the hand in back fucking Sam until it's four fingers deep, past the knuckles, only the webbing of its outstretched thumb keeping the whole hand from sinking in. Sam's not sure if he wants them to pull out or go further, all the way in. The guy in front has one of the most talented mouths Sam's ever experienced, sucking and bobbing until Sam's on the brink of coming, ready to let go.

And then they stop.

Both of them pause, the hand in his ass pulling halfway out, the mouth around him going loose and slack, just keeping him warm. They wait, Sam's not sure exactly what for, but maybe for the tension in his body to start unwinding a little, or the panting of his breath to slow down.

Either way, they seem to just _know_. Know when he's out of the woods, when the danger of him coming has passed.

And that's when they start back up.

Again, they drive him right to the edge. Again, they stop when they get close. Unlike earlier, when he was suspended, they only edge him three times. But still, he's all-out crying by the end of the third time. Sobs—not loud or dramatic, but undeniable. The guy behind him jacks off onto his ass when he's done. The guy in front of him raises up on his knees and kisses Sam's belly before winking and sliding away.

Sam hangs there when they're done, and for several minutes no one approaches him. He wonders if he's done for the night, and, after as much thought as he can summon up right now, decides that he'd probably be ok with it if he was.

He's pretty sure he was right when he feels warm hands at his ankles unbuckling him. He cracks his eyes open and sees Brady on his right, Les on his left. When he's released from the cross, he collapses into Brady's arms, totally unashamed of burying his face in the crook of Brady's neck and nosing into his scent.

"You good, Sammy?" Brady strokes his back.

"Yeah." He croaks out. " _So_ good."

Brady chuckles softly. "Yeah, you've taken it like a fuckin' dream, baby." His hand drifts up to the back of Sam's neck, gently pulls him back to look into his eyes. "...You can say no, ok? But have you got it in you for one more thing? I promise, we'll be done after that."

Sam blinks at him, gives him a watery smile. "...'Course I do, Daddy."

Brady laughs, kisses him. "That's my good boy."

Sam's guided over to a low, firm leather settee or ottoman of some kind that's been moved to the center of the room. He's helped to the middle of it, kneeling down, legs spread, body upright. Someone slides behind him and he looks back to see Les grinning at him. He reaches down and fingers Sam's hole, spreading a thick lube around..

"Tighter than I expected after all that. Guess you're not all used up after all, are ya, pretty little slut?"

He feels another flush settle over his face, smiles crookedly. "Guess not."

Brady kneels in front of him, and he and Les wrangle Sam until he's poised over Les, his cock nudging at Sam's hold. They lower him down until he's seated in Les's lap. Even though the stretch is not as extreme as earlier, he still feels every inch. 

Les reaches down and grabs Sam's thighs and folds his legs up to his chest, exposing where he's impaled—to Brady, the whole room, god himself. 

"This feels f'miliar..."

"Won't in a minute." Brady's smile's got that sharp, devouring, slightly vicious look that makes Sam shiver.

Les lays back, holding on to Sam, now resting on top of him, still full of his cock. Brady crawls forward; straddles Les's hips. He coats his fingers with a liberal amount of that thick lube. 

Sam's pretty sure what's gonna happen next, but that doesn't stop him from choking on a gasp and Brady works his finger in next to Les's dick, slides it up and down. He can't take his eyes off of what's going on; mesmerized.

One by one, Brady worms his fingers in alongside Les. By the third one, Sam's gasps have turned into tiny whimpers.

Four fingers, Brady works his hand just up past the knuckles, the meat of his hand adding to the burn. He rests for a moment, then pulls outward gently, stretching Sam even further, somehow, and Sam hadn't even realized that there were tears, once again, running down his cheeks. Brady does, though, and the small ravenous sound he makes snaps Sam's eyes to his.

As Brady's holding Sam's gaze, he slowly slides his fingers out. It's strange, the difference. He doesn't feel empty, not at all, Les is making sure of that, but...something's missing.

Brady leans in, takes Sam's lower lip, trembling, between his teeth, bites and licks it swollen.

"Ready?"

Sam thinks he must nod, or something. Or maybe he doesn't, just stares stupidly. Either way, his eyes are drawn back down, watching as Brady carefully lines himself up next to Les.

Starts pushing _in_.

A whine escapes from him, not a short one, but prolonged and rising the further in Brady goes. 

It's not a whine of protest.

When Brady finally, somehow, slides all the way in next to Les, Sam sobs, once. Body jerks, once. Hole spasms and contracts...well, it can't seem to stop, trying to adjust to a stretch that shouldn't be possible.

Brady's leaning over him now, and he's all Sam can see. He doesn't let go of Sam's gaze for a minute as he starts to move, pounding into him. As Les starts to move behind him, thrusting up into him as much as he can from that angle.

Sam's only dimly aware of the room around him. The cries that are escaping him strangled and ecstatic, raw and unrestrained. Brady and Les slide against each other, working in a counterpoint that rubs his walls in a devastating rhythm that punches his prostate every other second, until the pleasure and pain is the same rising fury of wind whipping through him.

He wraps his ankles around Brady's thighs, holding on for all he's worth. Les's hands are on Sam's chest, grasping and pulling and clawing at handfuls of skin and nipple. He can only hear grunts coming from behind him now; no more filthy talk and teasing.

Brady's not all that quiet either, the noises he's making somewhere between growls and pants and groans. 

Sam's pressed down, filled up; all he can feel is the bruising force of muscle all around him and inside him. Sweat slick-coating the single, writhing organism they've become, till it pools in the hollows of his face, his ribs, behind the small of his back on Les's stomach. The smell of them both, tasting so good as it's pulled out of the thick air; a dying whiff of Brady's cologne ( _black pepper, tangerine, cedarwood, vetiver_ ), mixed with heady musk, salt, sex, skin.

It's too much, it's not enough. Both their cocks pistoning in and out. Caught in between this kind of delicious brutality. ' _Splitting him open'_ doesn't even begin to describe how it feels: shattering him, dissolving him, annihilating him. Maybe that comes close. 

Despite not having opened himself to it, he can feel them flowing through him like a circuit, the active, forceful energy of them seeking out his bare spaces, rushing in where he's open and yielding. It's almost transcendent, really.

"Go ahead; do it." Brady gasps out.

Sam's neck arches back, his throat gripped by Les's hand, not tight or choking or damaging, just firm and reassuring and exalting. A howl, a wail, a scream—something that he can't quite classify—rips from his core as he comes, completely unbridled, between himself and Brady.

He's not aware of much after that except for sensation, except for rocking back and forth on the two cocks that transfix him as Brady and Les take their pleasure from what's left of Sam. He feels them, distantly, come inside him—Les first, who he can mostly tell by the shudder of his body and the pulse of energy that resonates through Sam. Brady follows shortly after, spilling inside Sam, both wet and intangible.

He thinks he drifts off after that; is hazily cognizant of some jostling and shifting, tender pulling at his rim, aching emptiness. Being lifted and carried, laid out on something smooth and cool and soft. Murmuring nonsense when he hears his name from across a great space. A hand over his heart, lips on his forehead.

Then grey. For an unknown while, everything is peaceful.

......

Finally the room is starting to thin out.

Sam is fuck drunk. "We fucked all the goddamn brains out of ya, baby."

Everyone else has cleared out of the dungeon except for their small group, lingering in the come-down. Sam is on the couch, in Nate's lap again, Nate is back to playing with him, as casually and gently as before the night began. Sam is so sore and overstimulated he's leaking a few tears but he's relaxed and sated and happy. 

Brady sits to their side, rubbing and stroking Sam's back as he talks to Sierra, who's got a short boy with wavy, shoulder-length platinum blond hair and immaculate makeup tucked under her arm. Nate is talking to a stunning dark-skinned woman with braids to her waist who's sitting on his other side. 

Sam's just drifting, barely even half paying attention to anything going on around him, when he's jolted a bit to the side, almost tipping over. Nate steadies him with his free hand, before shifting his hip to dig in the pocket of his leather pants.

"Sorry 'bout that, Sam."

"S'fine." Sam slurs, breath hitching as Brady's occupied hand sweeps over his prostate. "Y'bastard." 

Another, longer press, finger making small circles. Sam whines. 

"Fuck."

Nate chuckles. Tries to dig into the ultra-slim leather wallet with one hand. "Dammit. Reggi, you'll have to get them out. They're in the billfold."

Reggi flips the wallet open, pulls what looks to be a couple of small photographs out, sifts through them with a soft smile on her face.. "Aww, Nate! He's _gorgeous_. Has a real sweet face. And you can tell he adores you."

Nathan has a dopey, besotted grin on his face. Sam smiles, pleased to see his friend made so happy by someone. 

"Lemme see, lemme see..." He makes gimme hands at Reggi. She smirks and hands the pictures over to him, he flips them over.

" _Ohmygod_. He's sooooo fuckin' cute. Beautiful! Nate, why the fuck you been hidin' him fr'm me? When do I get t'meet him?? Can y'bring him to campus next week?" He squirms and pouts. "Can y'stop finger-fuckin' me for like thirty seconds? Pretty sure this's the love of my life here we're talkin' about, 's important."

Reggi and Nate break into snickering, while Brady's head swivels around to take in the scene next to him.

"Love of your life, Sam? Huh." He lifts an eyebrow. "...do I need to be jealous?"

"No!" Sam protests. Then stops, reconsiders. "Well....maybe. Take a look an' tell me m'wrong." 

He thrusts the pictures at Brady, who lifts his hand from Sam's back and takes them gingerly.

His face freezes when he looks down.

"This is...a puppy." He looks at Sam. "Nate, and a _puppy_."

""Good job." Sam smiles, pats him on the head. "An' they say your not smart enough t'be a doctor."

"They're probably right. I mean...I'm head-over-heels for a guy that's cooing over pictures of cute puppies while there's three fingers up his ass. After he got fucked by the entire club all night." He looks at Sierra. "I mean, that's not normal, right? Like that's not how it goes in the porn I've seen. He should be, like, crying or something. Twitching on the floor. Begging for more. Or at least for mercy."

Sierra cocks her head, examining Sam. "Well...he is kinda cryin', still. And it was maybe half the club, if you wanna be exact." She points at Sam with her drink. "Though, I mean -and I'm not really one to cry, myself, so I'm no expert—I don't think you're supposed to laugh and look all smug and content while you're doing it." 

She shrugs, grins, takes a drink. "On the other hand, he's gotta be fuckin' sore by now, and Nate is really being a bit of a relentless bastard, so the tears seem reasonable despite the whole...sassiness."

"Hmmm." Brady considers. "I could be wrong. I think my normal meter's broken these days, dealing with this one.." 

He starts to grin up at Sam, who returns the look, despite the tear tracks he's now well aware of running down his cheeks.

"Hey!" Sierra reaches over and smacks Brady's arm, hard, much to the amusement of her glamorous companion. "No getting all mushy and precious and shit after the gang-bang!" 

Brady opens his mouth to argue, and she holds her finger up in warning. "That's _the rules_! I don't make 'em!"

Brady rolls his eyes. "I kinda think you do." He turns back to Nathan and Sam, looks at the pictures again. Sighs. "It really is a fucking cute puppy, though." 

He narrows his eyes at Nathan. "Are you trying to steal my boy with your cute puppy, Nate."

"Not at all, man." He holds his free hand up in surrender. "I gotta admit, I'm honestly not sure I could keep up with either of you after witnessing tonight. Well, mostly this one." 

He drives his fingers in a little harder, and Sam yelp-moans. "Y'all have my blessing, god save your insatiable little souls."

Sam snatches the pictures out of Brady's hands. Shuffles through them again, sighing over the fluffy, chubby, fucking adorable chocolate-brown lab puppy.

"Those blue eyes..."

"You know they won't stay that color, they—Ok. Enough." Brady stands up. "That's it. I need to get my boyfriend, and myself, to bed, 'cause apparently getting your literal brains fucked out is also a spectator sport. I am kinda dumb, but I'm not usually dumb enough to actually get jealous over a dog. No offense, Nate." 

Nate shrugs amiably, amused.

Brady holds his hand out to Sam. Nate pulls his fingers out of him and smacks him on the ass as he somehow manages to pull himself up with Brady's help.

"Jerk." Sam stumbles a step, catches his balance on Brady's arm. Looks down at himself; makes a grimace of disgust. "I am so gross."

Reggi cracks up. "You're just noticing that _now_??"

Sam is covered in enough cum to open a sperm bank. All of it dried or gummy by now. Lube still leaks down his thighs. He's littered in bruises and bite marks and scratches and welts. He's got a film of sweat dried over every inch of his skin. He knows the room was cleaned meticulously before they used it tonight, but so many people were walking on it, and he spent a lot of time with his body pressed down on it...

"I was kinda distracted."

"Don't worry about it, baby." Brady pats his hip. "You're beautiful."

The stare Sam turns on him is nothing less than withering. "Oh, fuck you." There's no heat in his voice, just disbelief and fond exasperation. He looks at everyone, nods his goodbyes, gives a little wave. "Thanks, everyone. It was a magical night an' all, and y'r all awesome, but this idiot owes me a boiling hot, really fuckin' long shower an' about a gallon of soap."

"One of those fifty-gallon drums might do the job." Sierra offers helpfully. 

Sam rolls his eyes at her and gives her the finger. She winks back.

He drags Brady towards the door by his arm after they've all chorused their goodbyes.

He pauses, though, and glances around the room, confused. "Wait...didn't I...do I have clothes?"

Brady pulls him out with a shake of his head before Sam gets riled up and starts bitching at the group laughing behind them. He slides his arm under Sam's shoulder, steadying him and holding him up a bit. Which he's eminently grateful for, having just realized how weak, shaky, and sore his entire body is.

In all the best ways, of course.

"In the locker, Sammy. Don't worry, I'll take care of you." He gives Sam a kind of awed, doting smirk. "Cause, honestly, I'm surprised you can even remember your name right now."

"Wish I could forget the fuckin' train ride home." He grumbles. " _So loooong_. J's wanna sleep."

"Oh, I booked us a hotel room just a few blocks away. We'll get cleaned up here, be there less than ten minutes after. King-sized bed, clean sheets, late checkout. We can do room service in the morning an' all that shit. Got a bag with a change of clothes for us both in my locker."

Sam looks at Brady, pretty sure there must be hearts floating around his head, Tex Avery style. "Y'r the bes' boyfriend ever." Lets out a happy sigh. "Not sure yet, d'I tell ya I love you?" 

He feels like if Brady's nod is a little smug, well...he deserves it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's life moves on, when he likes it, and when he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter than my usual, but it's It made sense to post this rather than wait for another few weeks. Not sure if that's preferable to longer less frequent chapters?

The past several months haven't been idyllic. 

Sam's as snowed under with things clamoring for his attention as usual. Classes, studying, work—all in ludicrous, almost unmanageable amounts. Trying to scrape together the extra cash to cover an unexpected software subscription needed for his programming class. Having to spend a night at his storage unit reinforcing a few astral ties to certain power sources—he doesn't use them any more, but it would be too dangerous to ignore them, to risk them rebounding on him if they thin out too much and snap. 

And he's not the only one. Brady's chem labs run an hour, two, over schedule regularly. Calls with his sister every few weeks have started leaving him with eyes dim and a little pink, hair sticking up in tufts, quiet for an hour or two afterwards. A girl he had a brief fling with back in the first month of school, but had ended up just a friend, has started texting, calling, even tried stopping by unannounced; touches Brady too much when she sees him, glares at Sam. 

...there's no less stress than there was before, really. Sam still gets migraines sometimes, Brady still chews on his lip till it bleeds. 

And Brady and he are pretty much living together at this point, though Sam makes a point to spend at least one night in his dorm room a week. That means dealing with all the little annoyances that come with sharing space with someone else, especially someone with whom you share a tight orbit. The way they chew their food. The music they listen to, just a little too loud. The toothpaste dregs they leave in the bowl of the sink. 

But despite all this, it's been _good_. Good in a way Sam hasn't experienced before, that he'd always dreamed of, but never really expected to have. Sam's happy when he's with Brady, happy a lot of the time even when he's not—he feels a comfort, a security, and appreciation that grounds him throughout the day. Brady's frustrating habits barely register with Sam most of the time, having grown up with his brother's baroque eating habits and his dad's tendency to leave smears of blood on bathroom counters and bedspreads. 

And Brady's adoration of, devotion to, Sam—as hard as it is for him to sometimes understand _why_ —hasn't diminished. Seems to have grown, even. He takes most things in stride; and when Sam does something particularly infuriating, his reactions are often so entertainingly dramatic they defuse any tension. Heaving sighs with pleading looks and hands aimed at the ceiling, as if asking god what he's done to deserve this torment. Snarky, ridiculous comments that devolve into campy teasing about being _punished_ for his bad behavior...which usually does end up with Sam laughing over Brady's knee, or pressed down against the counter, or, a few memorable times, tied to the table. 

"C'mon, Brady, I'm _sorry_." Sam wriggles, not really trying to get out of the ropes at all. Even though Brady made him slip on the ring before he laid down, so he knows he's not going to get relief any time soon. 

It's always worse when he's the one that has to put it on, somehow. He just likes Brady _doing things to him_ more than he likes doing them to himself. He's been finding he rarely even jerks off anymore, even though Brady doesn't forbid him to very often. Sam's always liked that long, slow build of tension and pent up energy, though. Had to get used to it at first, but after a while used to abstain for weeks—even a few months, once—of his own volition. 

"No, y'r not." It sounds like Brady's got the end of the rope clenched in between his teeth, while his hands are busy securing Sam's left ankle to the wooden leg. 

Sam sighs. "...at least take the blindfold off so I can see what you're doing." 

"Where's th'fun in tha'?" 

"You mean where's the fun for _you_." Sam snits as Brady finishes tying off the knot. 

"Exactly." 

There's a minute of silence where Sam squirms and Brady makes some _clacking_ noises. Sam keeps his mouth shut until he feels something hard and narrow push into him, followed by a gush of cold liquid as the slim metal tube is slowly pulled out. 

"Ugh, I _hate_ that lube injector thing." 

That's a lie. 

"Yes, I know." 

Sam pouts as the syringe is pulled out. He really does prefer when Brady slicks him up with his fingers, or tongue. 

A moment later there's cold metal pushing up against his opening again. _More lube?_ But it's not the syringe, its shape is different; blunter, rounder, thicker. It's slowly and steadily forced into his hole. It's not very long, only going in a few inches before a segmented base bumps up against his rim. 

Sam's brow furrows. 

There's a ratcheting sound, a _click_ as it stops. Again, and Sam feels his hole being stretched, slowly, inexorably, as the metal cylinder starts to expand. 

"Oh, fuck, is that...?" 

Sam knows Brady caught his eyes lingering on the anal speculum in his locker the last few times they been to the club. He doesn't respond to Sam's half-question, though. 

It takes several minutes for the speculum to be opened to its widest setting. They haven't fucked yet today, hadn't had the time to yesterday night, so Sam's pretty tight. And Brady would never be careless and go too fast, risk tearing him. He understands the difference between pain and damage. 

Sam's squirming intensifies once it's done. He's held open so wide, a couple of inches at least. Spread out on the table. Completely on display, inside and out. 

"Stop that." 

Sam stills. He may like pushing Brady's limits sometimes, but he knows a direct order when he hears one. 

The speculum nudges in just a fraction or two further as something bumps against it. Sam feels it soon enough. Hard plastic or silicone, about the same diameter of his stretched out hole. It feeds into him, long enough to press up firmly against his prostate. It turns in place, and there's a click. It's rocked back and forth a little, like Brady's checking to see if it's secure. 

Sam swallows. He knows what's in store for him, and he's got the most delicious dread pooling in his stomach. 

And then something sharp and bright bites into each nipple in turn. Sam hisses when they tighten for a moment, before a chain drops onto this chest. 

"Alvaro was right, these are worth the extra money." 

Sam huffs as if it doesn't affect him, like he's above it. Another lie. He hears the clicking of a plastic case being closed. Feels the table shake as Brady moves off to the side. That's when he realizes that Brady hasn't touched him yet. Not once, not with his own body, since he finished tying Sam down. 

And then there's a softer click, and the plastic in his ass starts vibrating. _Of course_. His attention shifts back to the sensations building throughout him. The thrum is low, slow, but insistent, steady. 

"...ung, _fuck_..." 

"Mm. Not right now." 

Sam starts to settle himself in for a long session of teasing, torture. Brady didn't go through all this trouble just to throw in the towel too soon with a quick fuck. He smirks to himself; really, they both win here. Sam had only been acting up today because he really, really wanted Brady's already-engaged attention, the bastard. 

Then he hears Brady's footsteps. Walking away. 

"Wait...where are you going?" Sam pants. 

"I'm gonna finish studying." 

He hates how Brady can sound so calm and collected when he _knows_ he's as turned on as Sam is. 

"...wait, what? You're gonna leave me here like this??" 

"Yep. Until I know you're _actually_ sorry." 

"Brady, fuck you, get back here— _ohmygod_ —you asshole, unngh, _fuck_!" Sam's back arches up, thighs tighten, as the vibrator cranks up in intensity suddenly. 

"Nope," he hears Brady's voice from the living room. Sam realizes he's got good view, but can finish his studying in peace, without Sam sneaking his hands into his lap, licking and sucking his earlobe, sniffing his neck, his armpits ( _I've got an exam tomorrow, you weirdo, stop that_ ), flopping over on the couch and rubbing his face against Brady's thigh, biting at it when he gets no response. "Don't sound repentant at _all_." 

Sam splutters, then whines, then moans. Brady is unflappable; unmoved by his pleading. 

At least, he is for the next hour and a half. Even Brady can only take so much. 

So, yeah, the sex is definitely still fantastic. Only seems to get better and better, really. 

But it's the normal, everyday moments Sam loves the most. Waking up tangled with Brady, burying his head in his neck until he has to give in and get up so he's not late for school or work. Talking over dinner or curled up on the couch, whether it's gossip or complaining about school, discussions about science or politics, arguments over the movie they just saw, explorations of more imponderable subjects, or whatever random bullshit is floating through their heads. Brady stopping by the coffee shop for a drink or lunch or just a kiss and hello in between classes (despite the teasing from his coworkers). The stupid inside jokes they've developed. The nights Brady cooks for them. The disbelieving look on his face when he comes home and Sam's vacuuming ( _I kinda forgot I had one of those_ ). The way their friends say things like _I wanted to see if you and Brady were coming out on Friday_. 

Him and Brady. 

He's not ashamed to admit, at least to himself, how much he likes the sound of that. 

That doesn't mean it's all been only grinding stress or domestic bliss. They've also gone out, a few times the regular haunts with their friends to unwind. More than once to Elysium. He found himself feeling right at home in Brady's little circle of friends there. Brash, entirely unsentimental Sierra, with whom he'd scened a few times; half snarky, playful banter, half taking Sam to pieces. Usually both at the same time—she can somehow make him laugh and cry and come all at once. Viciously affectionate Les, who would push his limits as far as Sam would let him and had the most amazingly dirty mouth, but always knew when any of it skirted up to near the line of _too much_. Ryu had teamed up with Brady to do a few lengthy, elaborate piercing sets on Sam, and Frances had given Brady guidance when he'd placed the barbells Sam now wore in his nipples permanently. 

And, a bit more often than the others, lovely Emmanuel, cruel and hungry and oddly gentle, in the most vicious of ways. The three of them had taken one of the smaller rooms a few times, just him and Sam and Brady. He'd use Sam—Sam's body, the deeper parts of him, too—to show both of them some of the more subtle and devastating permutations of pain and ecstasy. Sam knew Emmanuel was getting more than just stimulation and pleasure out of it, but he never seemed to take more than he was given. 

Sam, of all people, wasn't going to hold his nature against him. 

And he's played publicly with Brady of course, more than all of the others combined. Brady was finding his stride, his confidence. He was willing to observe and learn from others in the community, to apply it, demonstrate and confirm his ownership and mastery of Sam, to both their delight. They've taken a few of those classes Sam had been so intrigued by. They've started working through the shelves of medical toys and tools that Brady had acquired. 

They've also had some quieter times with a few their friends in the kink community, too, which Sam found odd and maybe a little disconcerting, at first—it seemed so out of place to sit around in someone's backyard as you watched them flip burgers on a grill with hands that had been inside you just a few days ago. But grew to appreciate these interludes—no pressure, no judgement, no sex. Just friends that knew a few of the darker places Sam carried with him, and didn't care. Les and his beautiful-but-unpretentious house in San Mateo. Grabbing beers with Sierra in trendy dive bars around her tiny loft in Dogpatch. Meeting up in the dog park with Nathan (and sometimes one of his three regular subs, all laid-back, down-to-earth, sweet guys) and, more importantly, Bandit, with whom Sam had found an immediate and mutually reciprocated love. 

And Sam had somehow found himself sitting around a gleaming mahogany table, at the kind of restaurant that Sam had only seen in movies, with Geoff and Andrew and Brady. They were ostensibly there to celebrate the recent sale of the company Geoff worked for, and had significant vested stock in, for a large amount of money. Sam had gotten the feeling that it was a thin cover so that they—mostly Andrew—could get a measure of Brady, see if he merited approval. Sam felt like he should have been offended and irritated by this kind of proprietorial behavior, but it didn't feel controlling, or like they doubted Sam's judgement. More like concern, or caring, or something, for Sam's wellbeing. 

And it didn't matter in the end, anyways—Brady seemed to have more than passed the test. At home with the hand-woven linen napkins and hand-cast clay tableware and _market price_ entrees in a way Sam would never be, Brady and Geoff hit it off from the start, both of a kind with their boyish enthusiasm and irresistibly ridiculous humor, leaving Andrew and Sam rolling their eyes at each other as they watched with affection. They left that evening with indeterminate plans of getting together at some point at the Cupertino house. Sam wasn't sure how he felt about that. Any of the three of them alone could be overwhelming, and Sam was certain that Geoff and Brady conspiring together would lead to nothing but trouble, even if of the best kind. 

So yeah, things were good, and it lasted a while. Sam relaxed into it as much as he could, found something in him that seemed to settle a little more each day. Took some of the edge of the fear and shame that always seemed to live under his skin, as long as he could remember. 

It was the third week in April, the weather still cool, but the sun had started coming out after a week of chill, overcast skies. Sam's just walked out of his Feminism and Social Justice class, and is heading over to the coffee shop. His shift doesn't start for over an hour, but he figures he'll grab some lunch or at least a smoothie before he starts. Brady's been on a campaign recently to try and get him to regularly eat at least two of three meals in a day. 

His phone vibrates in his jacket pocket. Sam takes it out with a smile, expecting the usual dirty texts from Brady before he has to start work. Brady said he loved the idea of Sam squirming and trying not to get hard while powering through a shift. 

It's a number he doesn't know. But he knows who it's from immediately, with a certainty that he knows is more than just supposition. 

He flips open his phone with a numb sense of resignation. 

_-Sam, call me at this number as soon as is possible_

He'd known this was coming. 

Thought he was ready for it, too. But as he stares at the screen, he realizes that he was fooling himself. 

Well, best to just rip out the stitches rather than trying to pull them out slowly. He sighs, scans for an isolated, quiet place. Finds a nook where two buildings meet, half hidden by a half row of tall poplars. Slides down the brick wall, sits with his knees pressed up against his chest. Sighs. Mouths a tiny prayer to Durga to help him get through this. Hits the dial button. 

It only rings twice. 

"Sam. Can you get to Crater Lake in two days?" 

"...well, hello to you, too, Gideon. I've been doing great, thanks for asking." 

Gideon wouldn't do anything so undignified as huffing, not quite. "While I appreciate your sense of humor, Sam, we don't have time for you to be _cute_." 

"Well, it's a good thing that's not something you have to worry about, huh?" He's not graced with a response. Sam sighs, rubs his eyes. "Two day is impossible. That's the middle of the week. I've got school, work, on Thursday and Friday. Can it wait till the weekend? I can leave Friday and get there that night." 

"Hmm. We'd be cutting it close, but that's doable, I think. The optimal window closes on the 5th, so that will still give us two extra days for extenuations or recovery if needed, and still get you back in time to not miss...more important things." 

"Wait...the 5th?" His breath stutters. "...christ, Gideon, you expect me to be there for a whole _week_? Just fucking rearrange my whole _life_ for you in four days? Just tell school, work, my—tell everyone to deal with me fucking off for a week with no reason I can give them?" 

"Samuel." And Sam feels the ingrained jolt of guilt and shame that has always accompanied that specific tone of voice from his former mentor. "I am not the one responsible for how you manage your life anymore. But I _am_ the one that agreed to protect the lives of your family, at your behest. You consented to this obligation of your own free will, and you—" 

" _I know,_ Gideon!" His voice strident, too high pitched and loud. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, calms down. "...I know, ok? Goddamit. I'm not trying to get out of anything, I just..." 

"...I understand, Sam. Believe me, if there was someone else I thought would be capable of doing this working, if there was someone I trusted to handle it other than you, I would have called them in first, and found something...less disruptive...to discharge your debt." 

And Sam does, actually. Believe him, that is. He knows that, in certain corners of occult specialization, there are few, if any, that can approach Sam's capabilities even with his meager formal training. It’s a matter of innate sources and styles of power, and also inclination, affinity, as much as it is of skill and study. 

And some of those obscure corners align with Gideon's areas of specialty—types of ritual, magic where you call on him first if you find yourself in need of them. 

And, well, Gideon...he doesn't lie if he doesn't need to; when the truth will get him what he wants. And it's an added benefit if the truth hurts more. 

"What is it? What rite do you need me to do?" 

There's a silence, and Sam's stomach curdles. This can't mean anything good. 

"Gideon?" Sam forces out, his voice muted. He wants to yell, wants to get frantic and angry. But he knows that won't get him anywhere. Stays as calm as he can. "I'll need to know so I can prepare however I need to, Gideon. The sooner the better." 

He doesn't add in a threat to not agree to Gideon's request if he doesn't tell him, if Sam doesn't like what he hears. They both know that won't happen, no matter Sam's protests and arguments. He wouldn't be the one suffering the consequences of that action. And that's a risk he's not willing to put on Dean and Dad, no matter what Gideon's asking of him. 

Sam hears a sigh from the other end of the connection. "It's not a rite you've done before, specifically. But it's similar to some we've completed." 

Sam waits him out, knowing Gideon's need to instruct will outweigh his need to prevaricate. There's another sigh, less exasperated, more resigned. 

When Sam hears the name of the ritual, his eyes squeeze shut. Sure, he's never worked this particular one before, but he's done a few smaller ones in the same family. And those were difficult, demanding, draining enough. This one...he doesn't doubt he'll need those two days to recover. Longer, really, to get over everything it'll take out of him completely, if he's honest, though he'll be functional by the time he comes back. 

"...Sam?" 

Gideon's voice calls him back to himself. Sam's aware, at this point, that he's already all but committed himself to going through with this. For them to undertake this at all there must be something critical at risk, something that would affect too many too greatly. He finds he doesn't want to know, though. Just wants to get this done with, get it over and get back to his life. 

"Yeah...yeah, I'm here." He takes a deep breath. "Crater Lake takes about six hours. I can get there by midnight friday, at the latest. You can text me the address?" 

"Certainly." 

"Who else is gonna be there? Luca?" 

"...yes. Luca will be there." 

He notes the sour undernote in Gideon’s voice with some satisfaction; it's his own damn fault that Sam doesn't trust him in the same way he trusts Gideon's own damn mentor. 

"As well as Ahriman." 

"Well, _that's_ just fuckin' fantastic." He should have known. Four are needed, and the pool of _talent_ for this particular rite is pretty limited. But still... "Goddammit." 

"I will reign him in, Sam." 

Sam snorts bitterly. "When have you ever reigned _anything_ in? You're just as bad as he is." 

It's an unfair accusation, really. Gideon's faults, the damages he's done to Sam, are deeper and wider than Ahriman's. And not all of that is due to Sam's fairly limited exposure to the low priest in question. 

But Gideon doesn't approach the darkness, the sheer brutality of Ahriman's power and nature. It's not even close. Sam knows that an apprenticeship under Ahriman would make his under Gideon look like Disneyworld. 

And Gideon knows it, too. 

"If you insist, Sam. I take it you'll still be there?' 

"Of course." Sam sneers. "Wouldn't fuckin' miss it." 

The rest of the brief conversation is a faded blur. Sam doesn't need to bring anything, unless he prefers to have his own binding tools with him. There will be a few there to support them, apprentices that Sam doesn't know, but Gideon insists can be trusted. 

He tells himself he doesn't care. About any of it. He'll go, get through it, get home. Put it out of his mind, behind him. Get on with his life, like it never happened. 

As he's walking into work, he feels the vibration of a series of incoming texts. As he's slipping on his apron, vague lunch plans long forgotten, he reluctantly gives into his urge and glances at his phone. 

Brady 

_-hey i was gonna surprise u but i know u hate that_  
_-and its yr birthday so i wanna give u what YOU want_  
_-not me. i mean i get what i want too much already_  
_-so for next week u tell me. wish is my command and all that_  
_- <3_  
_-srsly whatvr u want i mean it_

Sam snaps his phone shut. 

Just get past it. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn't always know when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought with me, and it didn't help that had almost zero time to write this past month or two. It's kind of a weird chapter, too. I think I managed to do what I was trying to do, but hopefully it makes sense to anyone else.

Dean sometimes used to say that when he'd been driving for a long time—especially in places that were wide open, but sometimes even in cities—that he'd slip into a state he called _zen driving_. Apparently, he himself would kind of disappear, and there would just be the wheel and the road and the leather and the stars or the sun. No thought, no plans, no _Dean_.

_"No **nothin'** really, Sammy, it's kind of awesome, like, really relaxing, y'know?"_

And, no, Sam _didn't_ know. He'd never been able to turn off or tune out his mind without, well, a lot of _assistance_. It was always racing, always filtering. Always swirling and full. Multiple threads of unrelated thought running simultaneously, switching tracks, making abrupt connections that changed the way things looked in strange and unexpected ways.

It was exhausting and exhilarating. It was maddening. It was kind of addictive, even.

But never _relaxing_.

Driving made it worse for him, because Dean's neurotic devotion to Baby made every pothole, every too-tight turn, every sudden brake a jittery exercise in dread for Sam. If Dean wasn't barking at him to _slow down_ or _speed up_ or _watch your goddamn blind spot, christ_ , he'd be side-eying him in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Kinda just like Sam felt when a monster was stalking him during a hunt, ready to pounce.

It was ridiculous, like Dean expected him to somehow manifest perfect driving conditions whenever he took the wheel.

And anxiety ramped up the frantic muttering of Sam's brain, which was distracting enough already. So he'd be forced to find a way to keep his focus on the road. Biting the inside of his cheek or rubbing his arm across that little jagged spot on the frame of the driver's door, or using an hedonic inversion invocation to send little shivers of pain down his back, when he found himself getting distracted.

Or he could look at Dean's face, and let the narrowed eyes and tight mouth remind him that the road was by far the most important thing he had to think about right now.

Despite all of that, Dean had still tried to convince Sam to try to reach muscle-car sunyata.

_"Just let go, Sammy. Go away for a little while."_

_"Go **away** , Dean? Really? 'Cause, if I'm gone, who's driving the fucking car?"_

_"I dunno, that's one of the great mysteries, right? Sometimes I just look up and I don't even remember getting to wherever we are. I know I must have made turns and stops and stuff, but...nope. Like I wasn't even there."_

Dean had laughed at Sam's look of utter horror and rolled his eyes at his proclamation that Dean was never driving again ( _sure, Sammy_ ), but Sam had always figured Dean was winding him up a bit. Sure, there were meditation practices that could remove the self, the ego, from experience for a while, it wasn't exactly uncommon. But while driving? Without actually practicing or building up to it?

Nah, he figured Dean just found driving relaxing, and found teasing Sam—especially about his innate inability to unwind—even more relaxing, the bastard. Sam was pretty sure didn't really _go away_.

But Sam's willing to admit he might have been wrong.

Because here he is, sitting at an intersection in a small town that he doesn't know or recognize, and he _knows_ he's been driving, he's the only one in the car, and this isn't where he was just a few hours ago.

He just doesn't remember getting here.

But what he's feeling isn't anything like zen, it's

_lodge was in the forest, tucked back far, hidden from roads or neighbors a beautiful open structure of golden wood and huge windows. Sam breathed deeply as he stood at the front door. His fist hovered over the solid slab of gnarled wood, unwilling to take that last step, a tiny part of him hoping still that it wasn't really happening._

_Before he could knock, the door opened._

_The face that greeted him—it was pleasant enough. Attractive, with its deep brown eyes and straight nose and strong brows. More so, even, as it had aged, the lines only emphasizing the elegance of its planes, the sprinkling of silver looking refined in the thick, black hair framing it. It smiled at Sam, warmly, affectionately. It opened its mouth and told him that he welcomed in mystery and beauty, and to enter here and bring completion to the congress, and that his soul and his body and his power were to be cherished and glorified by all gathered. And, after a moment's pause, it added that seeing Sam only made it realize how much it had missed him._

_Sam hated that face. Loathed it._

_But, god help him, part of him still loved it, too, even after_

leaving him unsettled, and -

Again; _fuck_. Now he's curving through woods, mountains surrounding him. It's getting late, it was already dusk when he left the estate outside of Union Creek. He can't keep doing this, getting lost in his head, in these new memories that he really, really doesn't want.

He's going to hurt someone, driving this way. And if he's unlucky, it won't be himself.

Sam bites down on his tongue. Forces himself to focus. Pretends that this stolen Ford Focus that stinks of cigarettes and old fast food grease is actually the Impala; that Dean is glowering at him from the passenger seat and muttering _just one ding, I swear, I'll end you_.

It should make him feel worse, but...somehow, it works.

When he pulls up at the Cedar Lodge, he has to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. Breathe deep. _Just go in, get a room, get inside. Then you can break down all you want, like the pathetic child you are._

When he's settled in, sitting on the scratchy polyester bedspread with the paisley print ( _why did he get two beds, anyways?_ ), he finds he's doing it yet again. He'd been sitting on the edge of the bed for twenty minutes now.

Looking at the clock reminds him that he really should call Brady. Sure, he'd left to come back home a few days early so

_long fingers slide down his belly, stroking, strumming,_

_"I don't think you're ready to go yet."_

_Sam breathes in sharp, nerves resonating, dissonant, waves folding outwards from where he's touched. He's still not settled, not sure when this is. Unstuck, he thinks, and smiles. Dean loved that book. But it fades quickly, breath speeds up. Wonders if he'll ever really be settled. Stuck. Again. Before. After...this._

_"At least stay another day, you_

and Brady wasn't expecting him yet, didn't need to know he was stopping for the night, but...

Sam needed it. Needed him.

Brady picks up on the second ring. Sam can hear the faint chatter and laughter of people in the background, bright and distant. It's early still, only 5:30, he probably caught Brady crossing the quad on his way back from his O Chem class, heading back to his apartment to study with takeout and a mindless comedy playing in the background. Or maybe to the gym, or the library.

"Sam?"

Sam feels something wash over him, twist in gut. He's not sure, but he thinks it may be homesickness.

"Hey, Brady..." He wishes his voice didn't sound thin and tired and broken. He clears his throat. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"For you? There's no such thing."

Sam smiles even as tears well up in his eyes. This past week has just driven home that fact that there's no universe in which he deserves Brady.

And Brady just seals it with his next words.

"Damn, I've missed you." He sighs. "But I didn't expect to hear from you till you were on your way home on Saturday. So this is a nice surprise. Even if I gotta wait another three days to see you."

"Um, actually, that's why I called. I'm on my way back now."

" _Thank fucking god._ " Sam can hear the smile in his voice, but also hears the hesitation that follows. "Not that I'm not thrilled you're coming home early, but is everything ok? Are _you_ ok?"

There's far too much to unpack in that answer for a phone call like this. It's not something Sam would ever want to lay on Brady, either.

"I'm...fine." He knows it doesn't sound convincing, but he knows Brady won't push, either. Not right now, at least. "And, uh, everything's...taken care of. Done, all paid up. Nothing to worry about anymore."

"Good. That's...good." There's a pause, where Sam listens to Brady's breathing, the faint life he can hear in the background. "Where you at now?"

"I'm just past Black Butte."

"Oh, then I'll get to see you tonight! You want me to make anything for you? Order in? Or I guess it'll be pretty late when you get in, huh? After midnight. You should probably get something on the road."

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll eat something."

"No, you won't." Brady doesn't sound upset, though. "And I've told you, it's Daddy."

"Keep dreaming." Sam smiles.

"Oh, I do."

"But, uh, actually, I won't be home tonight. I'm stopping here for the night. I'm just...too exhausted to keep driving. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Of course I don't want you drivin' into a ditch, darlin'. You find some place decent to sleep?"

Sam looks around at the wildlife-in-the-woods themed wallpaper border and the water stain in the northeast corner of the room. Probably not nice by Brady's standards, but it's clean and it smells alright and the beds aren't sagging or lumpy.

"Yeah, I'm at a little motel off the interstate. 'S comfy." He eyes the shower, wondering if he wants to bother before getting in bed and passing out. "I'll probably just order something for delivery and be asleep before it even gets dark."

"That sounds like a good plan. And take your time, don't rush back tomorrow. I don't miss you _that_ much, Winchester."

Sam huffs out a laugh. Singsongs, "Love you, too, _Tyson_."

"Ok, that's it, fucker! I don't have to take this abuse anymore! Well, at least not until you get home, anyways."

"G'night, Brady."

"Night, baby."

It's not until Sam hangs up that he notices his cheeks are wet. He wipes at them, stares at the drops on his fingertips.

Brady had said _home_.

  


....

  


_The bar is like so many other bars Sam's been in. Mostly dimly lit shadows, islands of too-bright light over the few scattered pool tables. Drunken chatter and laughter blending with whatever's playing on the jukebox, just enough so that neither can be understood._

_Three taps at the bar. Nothing higher on the shelf than Bacardi and Cuervo. Smells stale, fried food and cigarettes. The kind of waitresses that hit most of Dean's checkboxes. The kind of bartender that looks like he'd hit Sam real good, too._

_But Dean's not here. Sam's hand is clenched around a cheap, clammy beer glass; the kind that doesn't kill your budget even when you have to replace a dozen or two a month. One foot on the floor, one bent up, jittering, on the brace of the wobbly stool._

_Across from him, on the other side of the small, round high-top, sits John._

_Sam blinks, looks around, but the room swims with the movement, the lights and faces leaving trails that stir vertigo-sick in the back of his throat. Closes his eyes, blinks again. Half empty pitcher between them. It'd take more than that to make Sam feel like **this.**_

_Has he been drugged? Who would be able to pull that off under the watchful eyes of John Winchester?_

_...did **John**_

_Blink. The world stutters._

_know, Sam."_

_"...w-what?"_

_"I know what you are, what you do. Always have. Well, long enough_

_Breath seizes up. World spins._

_Blink._

_guess there's not really many good memories for you when it comes to me, huh?"_

_"Do you really want to do this right now, Sam?" Dad sighs. "You know just as well as I do what it was like_

_A screech from across the room. Jumps, eyes dart. Woman laughing, drunk, loud, hanging off the arm of a sandy haired_

_Blink._

_think you've sacrificed for this family?" John snarls._

_Shivers, swallows, drags his eyes back, vision drags behind, lagging by seconds. John's contempt snaps back into focus._

_"You think you're the only one that's had to do difficult things? That you're fucking **special?"**_

_Opens his mouth. The world lurches._

_Blink._

_know better than I do, I'm guessing. So maybe you could tell me."_

_John snorts. "You're right about that. You don't know the things that matter." Takes a drink. "But I'm not going to be the one to tell_

_Blink._

_...happy." Sam's gut contracts as something cold slices through it. "You think I was **happy?"**_

_Laughs. At least, that's the sound he thinks comes out of his throat._

_"Well, let's see, Dad. What the fuck do you think it was that made me so fucking happy? Hmm. Maybe, it was_

_Blink fucking **blink goddamnit**_

_don't know what I believe anymore. I do know what I've done...and I can't take it back." John's face sets like stone; voice going hard, too. "But what I did, I had to do, so don't go expecting me to apologize_

**_No._ **

_Blink._

_almost miss your shit. You sure as hell never made it easy on me. Made me earn every win." John shakes his head. "But nostalgia never lasts too long, does it, Sam? It's a curse to remember things clearly, I've always_

_Doesn't. Doesn't **remember** this. Eyes slam shut._

_looks back. Wavers, legs trembling. A dozen feet away. A dozen years._

_John looks away first. Takes a drink. Says, "Don't tell Dean about_

empty bed next to him, blankets unruffled.

Covered in sweat. Cold sweat.

Sam looks down at his body, his arms; skin white-blue in the sliver of streetlamp creeping in through the curtains. Sheets clenched in his fists. Forces himself to let go, turn them over. Forces himself to open, close, open. Fingers flexing, right hand, left...

Blinks, and there's something missing, something...

Just ghosts. Thin leather cord, cool metal resting against his wrist. Swears he can feel it. A scar? Can _see_ it. But...

There's nothing. Just Sam. Alone in a nameless motel. Hands empty, blank.

_When_...?

Nausea overtakes him.

Sam barely makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up the dinner that he didn't eat, after all.

  


.....

  


Sam didn't hear the door open, and he's got no excuse for that, except for the almost non-existent amount of sleep he's gotten in the past, well...week, really, and honestly, that's nothing new. But he only pretends not to hear Brady's footsteps, even over the noise.

Hands slide across his ribs, chest, from behind, and he fights down a shudder before he lets himself melt into it.

There's a kiss to the back of his neck, behind his ear. Sam smiles, turns off the vacuum.

"Ha! I felt that!"

He feels Brady's smile spread against his skin.

"Admit it, Winchester. The student has surpassed the master. I've finally managed to sneak up on you. Now it's time for me to give up this normal life and finally take up my true calling as a ninja."

"Ah." Sam slides his hands over where Brady's rest on his stomach. "That's a shame; when I only just got back. I guess it's only fair though. My turn to miss you, huh?"

"Whaddya mean?" Brady frowns as Sam turns around in his arms, looping his own over Brady's shoulders.

"You're coming with me, right? I mean, you'd make a pretty decent ninja. Not as good as me, of course, on account of you bein' so tall. Makes it harder to _sneak_. But we'd make a great ninja team! You could distract them and I'll stab 'em in the back."

"I'm sorry to tell you this, Brady. And I'll never stand in the way of your dreams. But ninjas only work alone."

"...really? Like, always?"

"Assassination, espionage...they're lonely jobs. And, anyways, the original word for ninja comes from _shinobi-no-mono."_

Brady just stares at him. "Uh-huh."

" _Mono_ means 'person'. Singular person. Not _people_."

Brady narrows his eyes. "Are you fucking with me? You're fucking with me."

"Would I do something like that?" Sam's all innocent blinks.

"Yes, it's pretty damn well-established that you would."

Sam grins, tips his forehead against Brady's. "In this case, I'm not. Well, _mostly_ not. Sometimes ninja would coordinate and work together. And there were some ninja clans, at least later on. Professional ninja families, kinda. But most were solitary in the long term. I don't think there were many ninja teams, sadly."

"Too bad." Brady tugs Sam sideways, tips them both onto the couch. Starts sucking, scraping his teeth up the length of Sam's neck. "How do you know this shit, anyways?"

"C'mon. _You've_ seen how much I read. How many bookshelves have we had to get since we started dating?"

Brady nips a little bit harder on his throat, but doesn't let up, voice muffled. "Y'mean how many've _I_ had to get, right? And it's four. Four fucking bookshelves you compulsive fucker."

Sam snorts. "Not sorry. But, in this case, it was actually my, um, Uncle Bobby. He spent some time in Japan. Spoke Japanese, knew all kinds of history and folklore. Dean got it in his head one year that ninjas were _cool as hell_ and he was gonna be one. Bobby was only too happy to educate us on what ninjas _really_ did. Thought it would turn Dean off...how dishonorable it was considered, some of the more brutal and duplicitous techniques they used. But it only made them _cooler_ for him. Pretty sure he still carries around a set of throwing stars."

Brady's still eating on his neck. "What'bout you? Did little Sammy wanna be a ninja, too?"

"Nah, I was way more into the Samurai. _So_ much cooler. I mean, the bushido code? C'mon. They were so disciplined and educated and honorable. And they had _awesome_ armor, too."

Brady pulls back and looks at him with a smirk. "Disciplined and educated...you're probably the only kid in the world who would think that's cooler than being a badass ninja. Well, even if we end up being mortal enemies, I'd never stop you from getting all the cool leather and boring books you want. I mean, when you become a samurai, because that's clearly your destiny."

Sam laughs. "Well, honestly, I'd make a terrible samurai, I know that now. You had to be pretty pure of character. They'd never accept anyone that didn't display perfect filial piety, just to start with. Dean would have been a good samurai, actually...I'm the one more suited to being a ninja. Cunning, devious, pragmatic..."

Brady stares at him, shakes his head. "It's like you don't even know yourself at all."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Moot point anyways. I'm way too low-class to be a samurai even if I was perfect for it. They didn't take dirt-poor, filthy drifters like me. Nobility only. And, most importantly, this isn't feudal Japan, sooooo...."

"Ugh, you're killing my juvenile fantasy with your _facts_ and _reality_." Brady huffs. "Also, my boner. History lessons just _kill_ my libido, so sorry."

"Doubt it. _Nothing's_ capable of that."

"Yeah, you caught me there. I'm an insatiable animal."

And Brady pushes Sam back on the couch and crawls on top of him, growling, pushing his shirt up and nipping across his abs as Sam dissolves into laughter and pretends to try and escape his terrible fate.

Somehow, at some point, this gentles down into a long, languid make-out session.

Sam focuses on the familiar weight of Brady's body on top of his, the way he tastes, the way he listens to how Sam's body responds to him, adjusting to give him what he needs, avoid what he doesn't. He focuses, as much as he can, on _letting go_ , letting the past week and everything that surrounds it slip away from

_god, you're so fucking pretty, Sammy. I can't even stand it sometimes."_

_"...don't. Don't do that. Not you, Dean, not_

and just _be_ here, under Brady, where things feel right.

Brady pulls back, sighs, looks down at Sam with a smile on his swollen lips.

"I've missed you, you gorgeous, overgrown nerd."

"Missed you, too. A _lot_. I...I really don't know if...don't know how I would have gotten through this week if I didn't have you to come back to. To come back _home_ to."

Brady runs his thumb up and down the edge of Sam's jaw. "How...how are you, Sam? Like, how are you actually doing?"

Sam swallows. "I'm fine."

Brady just continues tracing the lines of Sam's face.

"You don't have to be, you know? It's not going to bother me if you're not."

"...I know. I promise, I _do_. And I don't...I don't take that for granted. Never."

"I know, Sam. It's ok." He leans down, kisses him chastely, sweetly. "Whatever you need. Talk about it, distract yourself from it, whatever _it_ is, it's ok. I'll be here for that. Ok?"

Sam closes his eyes, 'cause he's gonna start with the crying, or start telling Brady to run, to get away now, while he can, he's gonna start protesting that he doesn't deserve any of what Brady so freely and trustingly gives him.

Or worse, he might start telling Brady the truth.

Instead, he takes a deep breath. Opens his eyes. Meets Brady's. Reaches up, lays his hand over Brady's; stilling it, trapping it against his own skin.

"Thank you."

  


......

  


_Sam's back spasms into an arch as another jagged, raw thread of power pierces his center from the inside. His fists clench, driving the blackthorn his wrists are wrapped in (braided ropes of slender, fresh branches and twigs, stretched to east and west) deeper into his flesh. His legs and head are free —as he needs to be open for the triumvirate—and pointing to the south and north. Between his legs, he sees blurred flashes of Gideon's strained and sweat-slick face through a thick haze of red and crimson light. Eyes are black smears of power and lust. Fingernails press into his thighs, a cock presses into his ass, mana presses into the tangled, knotted, cats-cradle of energy building relentlessly in his core._

_Gideon comes, roaring. Sam shatters, screaming. Something tears in him as the working that he's incubating, the power he's being fed, that he's feeding himself, that he's refining and crafting and weaving and growing into something there's no way he can possibly hold, it will kill him, it will rip him to such infinitesimal shreds that it will be like he never existed, he can't hold it, **he can't—**_

_"Sam!"_

_It's Luca's voice, gentle Luca, who never backs down from the truth but never, never hurts you with it merely because he can, Luca who somehow unleashed Gideon on the world, on **Sam** , but still, Sam loves him, won't hold it against him, turns his head to that voice, feels strong, gnarled hands on his face._

_"Luca...you shoulda...should've ended...one of us. Shouldn't have let it...let **us...** happen...he never should have, shouldn't be doing..." Sam pants. "Luca. Please..."_

_"Sam." Luca pets back his hair, sweeps his thumb in a circle on his forehead. "You're more than this is. It won't overtake you, remember that for me? I trust you. You've got this."_

_Sam blinks up at him, everything swimming. Tries to count the days until he's home again, until he can see his boyfriend, go to work, sit through classes on too little sleep, pretend that's the only reality he's ever known. But even the hours break up and shatter and scatter when he tries to look at them._

_He wishes he was somewhere else, lying with his head on Brady's lap watching stupid movies. Wishes he was someone else, that he'd never felt the touch of power and magic, didn't believe it existed. Wishes he'd had more of that deep green that surrounds Luca in his life, like the light in the pines behind Bobby's house. Wishes he'd had more of that soothing calm in his life, rather than all the burnished, burning reds and oranges and yellows he's surrounded by, he's a dark thing, all shadows and corners and holes and their light is going to burn him out, thin him out until he's nothing, and he sobs..._

_"I don't...I don't want it. Luca, **please."**_

_Luca doesn't shush him or argue with him, but he doesn't give him what he's begging for, either. Because he can't, and Sam doesn't know if he ever asked for this, for the power, if he ever wanted it, if he deserves it. But it doesn't matter. Because it couldn't be taken away, not without unravelling all that's Sam Winchester._

_Not that he wouldn't be ok with that right now._

_But Luca merely presses a chaste, gentle kiss against his lips. It's a small balm, but he's grateful for the tiny soothing it provides. He hears Gideon growl, primal, territorial, blunt human claws biting into his thighs and Sam's head falls back, eyes scrunching shut as his sobs bubble up into laughter, and, as hideous as he knows it is, Sam can't stop..._

  


.....

  


"You were late today, Winchester."

Maya pulls on her cigarette half-heartedly as Sam steps out the back door, hefting two overstuffed trash bags over to the dumpster twenty feet away.

"After taking a whole week off, too."

"Yeah..." Sam wipes his hands on his apron, grimaces. "I'm _so_ sorry, Maya. I, uh, didn't sleep great, but I know that's a shitty excuse, but I promi—"

Maya makes a dismissive sound and waves her hand, ashes drifting to the damp concrete. "Eh, I'm just giving you shit. You know how often Cara gets here a good fifteen minutes after her shift starts?" Maya swipes at the seat next to her, pats it.

Sam hesitates, then sits gingerly on the still wet concrete bench. "Uh, at least once a month?"

"More like twice a week. I should probably fire her or something." She tips her head back, stares up at the grey sky. Sam glances at the dark circles under her eyes, the way the cigarette trembles ever-so-slightly. "I'm pretty sure this is the first time you've been late in, what, nine months?"

Sam gives her half a smile. "There's a joke in there about birth control, but I'm too tired to make it."

Maya finds the other half of the smile, just as weak as Sam's. "Not too tired to kill it, though."

Sam shrugs. "It's a special talent of mine. Been training all my life for it. Perks of being a dorky little brother, I guess."

There's a moment of silence, soft and staticky,

_how was I using you, Dean? What the hell would I use you for?"_

_"Oh, I mean, where do I **start,**_

look like shit, Sam."

"I know." Pauses. "You, um, seem pretty...worn out, yourself. A little down, maybe?"

Maya doesn't say anything.

"I just meant, y'know, not like your usual self...nothing bad, I mean, just—"

A sharper flick of the cigarette, it's dropped to the ground, stamped out. "Yeah, well I can't always be your sassy black friend, Sam. Sometimes I'm just not feeling up to filling the role, y'know?"

"...shit, Maya, I'm so sorry. Of course you don't always have to...do that. You _never_ have to do that. I didn't mean to—"

"No no no. Fuck." She rubs her face with both her hands. "Sorry, Sam. I know you're not like that." She laughs bitterly. "I mean, there definitely some people around here that _are_ , but you're not big on fetishizing your friends."

"You don't need to apologize. I can't imagine what putting up with that must be like. And if I made you feel like that for any reason, then I'm sorry."

Maya leans back against the table, drops her head on Sam's shoulder.

"You're alright, Winchester. Well, you're obviously not alright, seeing those circles under your eyes, there. You never heard of concealer?"

"I ran out. I'd ask you to lend me me some, but I'm guessing you did, too."

"Asshole." She chuckles. "There's a joke in there about skin tone and the lack of color range in consumer makeup lines."

"But you're too tired to make it, and I don't even have to kill it for you."

"Hmph. I guess not."

There's a tired, companionable silence. After a few minutes, Maya sits up, fishes out another cigarette from her pack. Click of her lighter, crackle as she inhales.

She gives Sam a serious, assessing look.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Sam glances at her, sighs.

"...honestly? I don't even want to think about it." He returns her look. "How about you?"

"I don't—" She stops, squints at him. "You know, I think I may take you up on that, sometime. You know how to listen. And I bet your problems are _way_ more fucked up than mine, so you won't judge."

"Gee, thanks." Sam snorts.

"Sad thing is, I'm pretty sure it'd be impossible for you to lose that bet. I set a pretty low bar for fuck-upedness." He thinks about it a moment. "High bar?"

"Hmmm. Low bar for the highly fucked up."

"Huh. That's more apt than you could even guess."

Maya takes another drag. There's the smell of petrichor underneath the tobacco and smoke and the frangipani and amber she wears.

"But seriously, any time you want, Maya."

"Thank you, Sam." She nudges him, smiles. "But not today, 'cause you left Jermaine in there to train the new kid all on his own."

Sam closes his eyes, groans. "Ugh, don't remind me."

"Moping time is over."

Stands up, looks back at her. She looks fragile against the grey sky and grey concrete. But Sam knows better.

"You coming?"

"Nope. I'm still on break."

"Ok, boss. Enjoy the leisure time you've earned on the backs of the exploited proletariat."

He laughs as she gives him the finger, closes the door on the smell of rain and cigarettes.

  


.....

  


_Sam picks at the loose threads around a rip in his jeans, looks through the window at the curtain of rain off in the distance over the mesa. He wonders if he's been on this road before, if it even matters. Wonders what Dean's doing now; which roads he and Dad are driving on._

_This is the longest he's been away from them, from his family. From Dean. He'd been anticipating it so much in the months leading up to it, sick of the constant, churning cycle of tension and violence between him and his father. Sick of putting that pained look on Dean's face so many times, so often that it ended up shifting into a look of resentment. Maybe even hate._

_He doesn't care about that right now, though. Tries to count the weeks until he'll see Dean again, see both of them, really, but the days keep breaking up like_

cold waves against three tall, grey rocks, spray of saltwater. A crescent-moon beach. He can see it so clearly; smell it, _feel_ it, but he's sure he's never been there, he

_shakes the errant thought from his head, confused. Gideon's still waiting for an answer; one he doesn't know how to give._

_"I...I'm not sure you'd really...get it."_

_"Oh, you're not?"_

_There's a silence. The low hum of the sensible engine. The heavy absence of pounding music._

_"I see."_

_Sam's chest clenches. "I mean, not that you_ **_couldn't_** , _of course. I didn't mean_ **_that_**. _It's just, like...it was, it's...not chaos, not really, not at all, but...non-linear, maybe? I mean, of course it was, it is, that's a stupid oversimplification, because I'm too stupid to understand it all, I dunno, maybe everyone is, but definitely me. But it's just so much more_... ** _undefined_**... _than I expected. Not completely random, but...still stochastic? But, also, like... **alive**_ _somehow. All around and inside itself, and, it's funny, 'cause ouroboros is like...crayon scribblings in comparison. They have_ **_no idea_**. _If it was just that simple...but it's so much more, um, it's more...."_

_At loss for a word to sum it up, he shakes his head, gestures frantically with one hand, tries again._

_"It's got to be so difficult, y'see, 'cause if it didn't needlessly complicate itself then—god—then, everything would be **clear** , it would always know, and if it always **knew** , it would be...it would..." _

_He swipes at his eyes as the vast, yawning, burning-cold terror starts to open up inside him again. He pushes it down ruthlessly. He's rambling, he knows he is._

_Gideon hates that._

_"I dunno, I uh...I think, maybe that's just...not where you live, like, not how you're put together." He shudders in a breath, licks his lips_. **_What the fuck, Sam?_** _"Um, not really your nature, you know? For fundamental things to be...unknowable. Intentionally."_

_There's more of that awful silence. The ping of a pebble thrown up at them by the wheels of a passing semi. The plastic whir of the air conditioning._

_"I don't think_ **_you_** _have the power to define_ **_my_** _nature, Sam."_

_Gideon's face is placid, smooth, which is so much scarier than any of his father's rages. Gideon never yells, never loses his temper, and more than once, Sam has thought it would be so much easier if he just **would**. Just scream at him. A backhand or two. Something simple. _

_So much easier than what he **does** do when Sam needs to be corrected. _

_"That's not how this relationship works."_

  


.....

  


Sam closes his notebook, shoves it and his textbook and his four pens (different colors for different categories and priorities of information, of course) into his backpack. The last hour-and-a-half is somewhat of a blur, and he's uncertain how useful his notes will be when he reviews them later, but it was a fairly elementary review of southern american witchcraft traditions. Dr. Halston spent a little too much time on New Orleans voodoo and not enough on Gullah wudu for Sam's taste. But that's just because he knows so little about the fascinating coastal wanga customs and more than he probably should about voodoo.

He's not even really sure why he keeps taking these folklore classes. He wanted to get out of hunting entirely, right? To cut off that part of himself like a gangrenous limb.

But he guesses it's hard for anyone to completely escape the snare of their past, to not let it entangle with whatever future they're trying to build.

Sam huffs as he hauls his bag over his shoulder. Christ, he's been all tangled up in his own head recently. He really needs to get fucked.

Brady's seemed to realize that Sam's still been...bruised, maybe, since he got back from Oregon. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, whatever. No matter how much Sam's tried to push Brady into something harder, Brady's somehow managed to reign him in, divert him, calm his anxieties and not let Sam railroad him into to doing more damage than had already been done.

Sam's been the lucky recipient in the past few weeks of more blowjobs than he used to get in a year ( _and why did so many doms think that subs don't like to get blown, too?_ ). He also realized he'd forgotten how sensual, how hot, grinding and frottage could be. And even just kissing, too.

Well, there's no " _just"_ at all about the way Brady kisses, it's practically a religious experience, the only person Sam knew that was—

"Sam."

"Huh?" Sam practically trips over his own feet. He hasn't been sleeping great still, though it's been getting a little better the past few days, maybe.

Dr. Halston smiles at him, with that little edge of a smirk he always seems to wear. The one that lets you know, yes, he's laughing _at_ you, but really, why take it personally when everyone is beneath him, too?

"Do you have a moment, Sam? There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

"Um, yeah, sure..." Sam glances around. Most of the students have filed out but there's a few still chatting or packing up.

He gestures to the door, and Sam dutifully follows him down the hall and up the stairs, still feeling hazy. He knows that Halston wasn't particularly thrilled about Sam's absence from class, but he hadn't seem particularly bothered by it, either. He knew Sam would keep up with his work, either way.

Fuck, was there something Sam had forgotten? A paper he didn't turn in? But why would Halston go through all this for one missed assignment? If he'd even felt the need to bring it up, he could have just emailed, or mentioned it to him as he left class...

Dr. Halston closes his office door behind them, gestures to the chair in front of his desk. Sam takes a seat. He expects the professor to take the seat across from him, but instead he leans his hip against the desk, putting him close enough for Sam to smell the Acqua di Gio (Sam kind of likes it, but Brady's sneered that it's _pedestrian_ ) he wears. Putting him so that when Sam looks up from placing his bag down, he's right at the perfect height to admire the stitching on the crotch of Halston's expensive-looking (Brady says _raw denim_ ) jeans.

Oh.

This is _that_ kind of " _talk to you about something"_.

And _seriously_? I mean, Sam's not a fool, he knows that professors banging their students happens from time to time. But this kind of ridiculous power-play scenario seems right out of one of those _Hot and Horny College Coeds_ pornos that Dean watches. Sam idly wonders if he's supposed to drop a pencil or something, bend over at the waist to pick it up, almost lets out a laugh at the

_I mean, if you can convince yourself you're in love, then you're not actually a dirty whore, right?" Dean sneers at Sam. "You want me to keep going?"_

_"Oh, **you're** going to call **me** a whore? That's funny."_

_"You know what's **funny** , bitch? Kinda hilarious, really, if you think about it." Green eyes, ice cold. "Say what you want about me. Yeah, I'm a fuckin' slut, sure, everyone knows it. And you, you like to act like you're so much better than me. But **I'm** not the one that_

think you would be prefect for, really."

"Um, perfect for what?" Sam blinks up at him.

Dr. Halston gives a long-suffering sigh. "My best grad student just _dropped out_. Really put me in a bind. She was supposed to assist me on a project this summer."

"Oh. Wait, Ela dropped out? I thought she was almost done with her program..."

"I guess she was _already_ done with it." He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. She can go backpack and find herself or get a shit job at boutique publishing house or whatever the fuck she wants to do. Either way, my problem is that I'm without a research assistant and only have a month to find one."

"Yeah. But, I'm sure one of your other—" Sam stops, scrunches his brow. "Wait...me?"

Dr. Halston just raises his eyebrow.

"...you, um, know I'm a freshman, right? I'm not really qualified—"

Halston waves his hand dismissively. "No, no. That's not a problem. It's nothing too complicated. Just help with the grunt work of researching and copying and organizing my notes. More...secretarial, really. My other grad students have commitments already. My post-grads have internships. This is nothing a bright freshman can't handle."

"Ok...but I still—"

"You're very bright, Sam, of course. But I've also noticed you seem to have quite a passion for folklore and outsider cultures, and know quite a bit for someone who has obviously not had access to many resources up until now. Your research and citations so far have been impeccable in both the classes you've taken with me." He folds his arms, tilts his head, looks Sam up and down. "You, of course, were my first thought."

Of course.

"Well, I'm really, um, flattered that you'd think I'd be good in that kind of position—" _oh, come on, really, Sam?_ "—but I have a job already and I'm not sure—"

"Are you staying for the summer?"

"...yeah, I was planning on it. At least for most of it."

Brady had mentioned Sam coming out to visit him in Seattle a month or so ago, and they hadn't talked about it since then, really, but Sam didn't want to miss the opportunity if it was offered.

"Are you taking any classes?"

Sam shakes his head.

"So, all the time that you spend now attending class and studying could instead be spent assisting me with a project that I'm sure you would find interesting, and getting paid to do so. And it wouldn't interfere with your other job at all. We can work around that."

"...I guess—"

"The stipend wouldn't be much, but I know you could use the extra money. Do you qualify for the work-study program?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then, that's excellent news. Your housing on campus would be covered for summer, then."

Honestly, that _is_ pretty good news. Sam needs to work for at least a few months this summer if he's going to make his budget work for next year. Finding a place he can afford is something that has been eating at him. He's already realized he's probably going to have to pick up a second job if he wants to come out ahead financially before fall semester.

Brady had joked about stripping or fetish modeling. Sam's not all that sure they'd be that much more objectifying than this job, really. They'd pay better, too, though not if you figured in the free housing...but Halston was a known quantity, and Sam could handle him.

"I'm...that actually might work out, but I'm supposed go—"

"It's only until the third week in July, so you'd still have a month or so of your own time." He places a hand casually on Sam's shoulder. "What do you think, Sam? I know you don't have plans for a degree in Anthropology, but this could be a good opportunity for you."

He squeezes Sam's shoulder, grins. "And, who knows? Maybe I'll change your mind, and you can keep studying under me."

_Sure I can. Fucking douche._

Sam suppresses a sigh. If he's gonna do this, he better start laying the groundwork to manage his new _boss_. Probably best if Halston underestimates him, really.

Sam gives him his best earnest, _shucks-me-really?_ smile. "Well, Dr. Halston—"

"David, Sam. We don't have to be so formal outside the classroom."

"...sure, David. Actually, that summer job does sound like it could really be great for me. Can I let you know next week before class? I'd have to talk to work, make sure that it'll work for them, and I'll have to—"

"Certainly, Sam. Talk to your boyfriend, talk to work. I'll email you the administrative forms for the work study program so you can get started when you make up your mind."

"Thank you, David." Sam smiles, looks up through his eyelashes. "Thanks for thinking of me for this opportunity. I really appreciate it."

"Of course, Sam. You'll find, when it comes to my more talented students, I'll always have their backs."

  


.....

  


_Sam's head lolls on Dean's shoulder. Last time he did this—so many years ago—was easier. There wasn't this haze of spitting hot, scorching energy, the kind draws you in like a moth and then burns when you touch it._

_And Dean's shoulder wasn't so much closer to the ground than Sam's head back then._

_"What are you giggling about up there?"_

_"Not gigglin', jerk. I don'...and 's **not funny.** "_

_"What's not funny then, laughing boy?"_

_"Y'r so much more **red** now, y'know that?"_

_"More red, huh? More red than what?"_

_"More red than_ **_before_**."

_"You're makin' less sense than you usually do, Sammy." Dean snorts, hefts Sam's unresisting body through the door, dumps him into the passenger seat. "Ok, I'll bite, Captain Morgan. What's it mean that I'm **more red**_?"

_Sam tries to grab one of Dean's faces in his hands, misses, clutches his fists in his shirt instead so he doesn't fall out the door. Dean's shirt feels good. Smells good. Sam rubs his face against it._

_"Sammy? You gonna answer or QC my fabric softener?"_

_"Huh? Oh!" Sam's so pleased he remembers the question, he grins up at Dean. "Means you're_ **_angry_**. _" He emphasizes his point by poking Dean's chest, hard, before he buries his face back in the soft, worn cotton._

_"Oh. An' horny, too."_ _Smells like Dean_. _Hums, content. "Reeeaaally hory_.. ** _horny_**. _An' real angry."_

_"Angry and horny." He hears Dean sigh as fingers sink into Sam's hair, making him hum some more. "Yeah, that sounds about right."_

...

"Hey. Listen to this shit—Sam? Hey, are you..."

A solid hand cups his chin, turns his head, and Sam blinks a few times, disoriented.

Fuzzy. He's been feeling so...out of it, recently. Not really much of a surprise, but still...it's been three and a half weeks. He should be back to...well, he's never going to be normal, but he should at least be...all here.

But, he supposes what they'd done, he and Luca and Gideon and Ahriman, the carmentae that attended them—it had been stronger, bigger, more fundamental than nearly anything he'd been part of before. Except for that summer in the desert when Sam was sixteen and had entered a place of liminality and the effects from that had rippled out for months on either

_drops it in his hand, closes his fingers over it. Small, metal; chill in his clenched palm. He makes to turn it over, spill her gift back into her own hands. Even onto the floor, if she doesn't want it._

_Nelva sighs, wraps both of her strong, tawny hands around his. "No, Sam. Whatever you think of me, whatever you feel...well, I can promise you that it wasn't like you think it was for me, I—well, what I feel doesn't matter right now. You should feel how you feel, it's not up to me. It never was. Nor will be. I'm sorry. I will always be sorry I hurt you. I will always have been your friend. I promise you."_

_Sam doesn't jerk his hand away. Turns his head, though; stares at wall. The copper nails sunk in endless rows blurring against his will._

_"Sure. You make a lot of promises, Nelva. I know what promises mean by now, though. I'm not a child."_

_"...no. No, you haven't been for so much time, have you?"_

_She sounds sad. Sam doesn't care; really, he doesn't,_

_"This, though," she taps his hand, "I know you don't want it right now, but you will, there will be a day when, well there will be many, days upon days...I guess...you know how that is now, don't you..."_

_Sam lets out a small, strangled sound without meaning to._

_Nelva's hand clenches around his for a moment. "I'm so sorry, Sam. But, keep it. Please. You may need it, and maybe you'll again remember me without_

"Sam!"

"Hm?"

Brady's hands still cup his face, but Sam doesn't miss the underlying note of panic, the anxiety twisting in his features.

"Sam...where were you?"

Sam plays dumb. "Whaddya mean?"

"Babe..." Brady strokes his thumb across Sam's cheekbone, tone getting all gentle and soothing like he gets when he's worried about how Sam's gonna react to something he's about to say. It's usually pretty sweet, a sign of how considerate Brady is to Sam's history and emotions.

But right now, Sam finds it really irritating. Like Brady thinks Sam can't handle a simple discussion about whatever's got him all tied up in knots. Like Sam's some kind of cowering, feral animal. Like Sam's some kind of bomb he's got to defuse.

Like Sam's some kind of unpredictable _freak_.

"You've been... _going away_ , recently. Like, spacing out. Usually it's just a minute or two, but sometimes it's longer, and...I don't know. I'm just...worried."

Sam takes it back. Brady's cautiousness—the delicacy with which he handles him—it isn't annoying him.

It's fucking _pissing him off_.

"Well, you don't need to be. I'm fine." Sam pulls back from Brady's hands, trying not to jerk his head too violently. "Just tired. Haven't been sleeping great lately."

Brady drops his hands in his lap, huffs. "Well, yeah, but that's not really anything new, is it?" He reaches up, pulls his hand back. "This is different."

He knows Brady has a point. At Sam's insistence, they'd started going back to Elysium about two weeks ago. The first night had been great; Brady and Emmanuel had worked him over good in a private room. His nerves had been on fire; he'd felt safe, he'd felt taken care of. No nightmares that night. He hadn't had even a single moment the next day that he found himself outside of where and when he actually was.

But the next time had not been so successful. Sam had pushed Brady to agree to a group sex scene. He knew it would show him that everything was ok, that _Sam_ was ok, and that Brady needed to stop mother-henning him so much.

It had been nowhere near as intense as the first time he had visited the club, only five people besides Sam, but, still...Sam's mind had started to stutter about fifteen minutes in. And then, when Brady was kneeling upright with Sam's legs over his shoulders, eating out his ass like he was trying to get to the center of him, and Sam was basically upside-down with Tre's cock being driven down his throat as Finnegan plowed into Tre from behind, and someone was pulling and twisting the rings in his nipples, and there were hands on him and slick, thick fingers in him next to the slick, wet tongue and everything shivered and panted and throbbed—and Sam just _went away_.

He's not sure how long it was after that when he blinked up at Brady's worried face as Tre draped a blanket over him and someone asked about medications and blood sugar.

Sam had been fine, of course. But so fucking embarrassed. Everyone was cool about it, told him they were just glad he was ok and not to apologize for anything, but Sam knew better.

After apologizing to Brady profusely, he hadn't mentioned the club at all this week.

"Not really."

"C'mon, Sam. I know something's going on. I mean, yeah, sure, your nightmares have been dialed up to eleven recently. But this...this...it's almost like you're having absence seizures or something. It's not normal. It's freaking me out."

"Oh, is that your official diagnosis, _Doc_? I'm a malfunctioning freak?"

"What?? No, what the fuck, Sam? That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying something's _wrong_ and it's scaring me. I fucking love you, you asshole, and I'm fucking worried you're hurt or hurting or..." He throws his hands up. "Something's been wrong with you ever since you got back from Oregon and I'm just trying to _understand!_ "

Sam gives a bark of bitter laughter.

"I've got news for you, Brady. Something's been wrong with me long, long before Oregon. Pretty sure something's _always_ been wrong with me. 'Bout time you realized."

"Sam, _stop it_. Stop trying to turn this into some kind of...accusation, or judgement, or whatever. I'm not blaming you for anything, I don't think this is your fault and, even if I did...I wouldn't care. I just...something _happened_ up there; I'm not an idiot. Please, don't brush me off."

Brady takes a deep breath. His voice is resolute. "...what happened, Sam? What

_down at Brady's face, bruised and bloody, laughing and sneering, contempt and fear twisting his features._

_"...your hell is **right here**."_

_And Sam steps forward_

wouldn't you like to know?" he bites out.

"Yes! God dammit, I would! That's what I'm _fucking saying_. I want to help you. You...you don't _need_ to tell me anything, I've told you that, I promised you that. But...I hoped you would _want_ to. That you would _trust_ me. And, Sam...I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

He reaches out, Sam jerks back, springs up from the couch.

"Haven't you figured it out yet, Brady? _I'm_ what's fucking wrong. Always have been, always will be. You're a little slow on the uptake, but I guess I've done a pretty good job sucking your brains out your dick 'til now, huh? Not that it takes much."

"...fuck you, Sam."

"Been there, done that, though, right? C'mon, you can't tell me you're not tired of it all. Can't tell me it's _worth_ it. All this bullshit? There's easier ways to get laid, right?" Sam paces, limbs shaking with anger. "And trust? You want to talk about _trust_? Why can't you trust me when I say I'm fine? Why can't you trust me when I say I don't _need help_?"

"Everyone fucking needs help, Sam! Why won't you let me? It's not being weak, it's—"

And he freezes, watches in horror as tears spill out of Brady's eyes. Sam's never seen him cry before.

And now he's the cause of it.

"I just want to help, Sam."

Sam stumbles back, stops, breathes, sets his face in stone.

"Then help _yourself_ , Brady. You need it, believe me, because you...because you're fucking stupid enough to love _me_."

He's silent as he leaves Brady's apartment, door shutting behind him without a sound.

  


.....

  


_Sam's stretched out, hung, inverted, in the center of the hierotopos. He's the potomitan, the gnomon, the hanged man. He's also the omphalos, the desmosthysia, the kadesh._

_Left leg bent out at the knee, ankle bound, a figure 4 suspended._

_And four, of course, there are four of them. Three of them the active, the linear: the past and present and future, the ends and beginnings and nows. And one of them the ineffable, the passive space outside both them and itself. That which holds it all and shapes it all and can't ever look at it all, can't ever know it all. That receives everything within itself: everything that's both given and taken. That which allows itself to be taken apart over and over and over to keep the madness, the collapse, at bay._

_Ahriman kneels on the step below the pedestal, in front of Sam's face. As Ahriman enters his mouth, Sam's hair drags against the sigils etched into the stone and sparks of crimson light swirl and explode behind his eyes. What spills out of Ahriman in an unceasing, fiery stream, a burning river; it ignites Sam, scorches him, as it twines up and around his spine, a lava-dark kundalini, a unwinding invasion._

_Gideon stands behind Sam, one hand on his knee. His right hand is working Sam even more open than he already is. Four slick fingers in, a palm, a thumb, his whole hand. Sharp, hot, it seems massive, too big to fit in his body, and it's not right, there are too many fingers, it's in too many places at once, and it finds the other end of the coal-bright snake twisting through him, grasps it tight and pulls, pulls it hard, and Sam is sure something in him will snap._

_Luca wraps a thread around Sam's waist, around his abdomen, around and around, a dozen times, a hundred, dyed black to grey to white to silver; shifting to something no longer physical, something ethereal, a shining needle of aether and maithuna, something collapsed down to two dimension, the tip a bright and terrible singularity, and then, with a whispered word that echoes and echoes and echoes, he turns it and drives it through Sam's stomach, through the eight-pointed star tattooed around his navel, though his snake-twisted spine, and Sam is fixed along all three axes, becomes the fourth, and even though silenced by the cock sealing his throat, something in him screams, and screams, and screams..._

  


......

  


When Sam steps up to the door, it's late, but not too late. He's not drunk, only a couple of drinks in the saddest dive bar within walking distance, the kind where no one bothers you if you don't want them to, because they're drinking for that same reason you are. To numb what they can, because they're too far past forgetting.

Not drunk, but still, he doesn't deserve to stumble in after midnight, disrupting Brady's sleep and home and life any more than he already has.

Even this feels like too much. Sam loves Brady, he really does, in a way that he didn't think would be possible for him again, not after all the...not after he's been wrong about love so many times.

It's funny, really. For all that Sam prides himself on his intelligence, his empathy, for all that he works so hard to understand—or at least to know—so much, love...love isn't one of those things. Every time he thinks he's got it, it turns around in his hands, and he realizes what he's looking at is something unknown, alien, terrifying. Fragile.

Dangerous.

Never at all what he'd believed he was holding on to.

And what he does, is it even love, anyways? It can't be. Not really. It's too desperate, too grasping, too profane, too selfish.

He really doesn't know anything about love. He's a fucking fool, blind and blundering. Doesn't know what he's doing, never has.

But he does know how it will end, eventually.

He should know better than to come back. Should be strong enough to not let himself do this over and over again. To someone that doesn't deserve it. That deserves so much better.

But Sam is weak. He always has been. He knows he should stay away, should keep Brady safe. Safe from everything that follows Sam no matter how far he tries to run; the magic, the monsters, the madness. Safe from Sam's depravity.

Safe from Sam himself.

He can't though. Not now. Not yet. He'll probably lose Brady for good, sooner or later—hell, maybe he already has—but for now, he needs this. _Wants_ it.

His knock on the door is soft, but not hesitant. Loud enough so that he knows Brady will hear it, but not so loud that he can't choose to ignore it, if that's what he wants. Sam will accept it, either way.

The door opens, though, and Brady is haloed in the soft light of the hallway. Sam can't make out the details of his face, but he knows his eyes are red and puffy.

"Brady, I'm sorry—"

"I know, Sam."

They stand there, silent, for a moment. Looking at each other, in the threshold of Brady's home.

Sam stays still, lets the light fall on his face, lets Brady see everything there.

"I...I just wanted to tell you, I was—I'm an asshole." He swallows, gestures over his shoulder. "I can...I can just—"

"Just get inside, idiot."

Sam hesitates, shuffles inside. Brady closes the door behind them, as softly as Sam had earlier, no noise. Turns, pulls Sam in, wraps his arms around him.

Something unwinds in him, something that was wrapped, constricting, around his spine, and he buries his face in the crook of Brady's neck.

Why? Why does he always end up doing shit like this?

He whispers, his words muffled in Brady's skin. "I'm so, so sorry, Brady. Whatever you want to know, I can, I can tell you...I can—"

"Shhhhh. It's ok. You don't have to tell me anything, baby." Brady kisses his jaw, gently. "I already know you're an asshole, anyways."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The magic in this world uses a hodgepodge of invented ideas and things from various mystical traditions. But it has absolutely no intention of representing what they really mean at all and no offense is meant if I butcher them. I also sometimes make up words with roots from other languages (latin and greek being the most common victims) but I don't know either language and am certain they make no actual sense. In which case, please feel free to laugh at me if you like.
> 
> /disclaimers


End file.
